Quinn Fabray: A Journal
by Wordwalker
Summary: Quinn has begun documenting her life in a journal. Introspective and honest, she discusses things she's never before told anyone else.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: My first story! I hope you enjoy it. Just note though, that being a journal, this isn't so much a story in which things happen, it's more like a reflection on things which have happened. I hope you read ahead, in any case.**

I don't know much about you, except that you're reading this, somewhere, hopefully far away. Likewise, you know nothing about me, except that I wrote this. The difference between you and I, however, is that by the time you are done reading this, you will know me quite well, whereas I will still not know you at all.

I cannot quite say what came over me to pen this to you, except that it was a compulsion which gripped me around the chest, crushing my sternum and tearing my diaphragm. I felt that if I did not begin to write immediately, then I would burst apart on the spot, heart exploding out of my chest and landing in a bloody, pumping pulp in the darkest corner of the room, leaving walls and floor and furniture flecked with shreds of flesh, lung tissue and shards of bone. With the beginning of this letter, already some of the pressure has ceased and I can feel that I am able to breathe again. I am relieved to say that I do not think that my imminent explosion is threat any longer.

My writing desk is cold. My pen is cold. My paper is so cold it almost feels damp, and the ink seeps through its pores as though it is human skin. But I am hot, positively feverish, and my pen flies across the page, leaving spidery trails in its wake. If you squint, they look like words. Forgive me, I have always had terrible penmanship; if schoolteachers were allowed to rap my knuckles for it, I'm certain they would have. Perhaps then I would have put in effort to improve it, but as it stands, it is as it is, scrawling and hardly legible, but writing nonetheless. I rather like my messy handwriting; it meant that keeping my writings private was possible without having to take security measures. I need not copy Leonardo da Vinci's habit of writing backwards to conceal my secrets, my writing itself is an almost undecipherable code. But I hope you are able to read it. If you can, then you are the one; this letter was meant to find you.

I say letter, but really, this is the beginning of a journal; a documented history of my life from this day until the day that I reach the final page. Here, neatly bound up in leather will be the story of my life, my year, my month - my however much time it takes me to fill these leaves. Thankfully, there are many pages here. I shall not be finished in a hurry, or so I hope. With my tendency to ramble nonsensically, it might all be over within a few weeks. This shall then be a snapshot of my life, rather than the entire story. Well, this is already the middle of the story of my life. I use the term "middle" loosely; I am but 17. I could be at the very beginning of my life. I could very well be in the middle of my life, should I happen to meet Death at the age of 34. I could even be at the very end of my life; I may have an accident tomorrow, or I may contract a fatal illness, or I may get bitten by a poisonous spider, or I may be murdered. Or I may choose to end my own life. All are possibilities; but not all are probabilities.

You may think, 'What a macabre child!' and to you, I say, "Yes, I am! But thinking about one's own death does not make one macabre; it makes one aware of one's own mortality." I cannot see how this is a bad thing. Too often I think humans overlook the fact that they may die tomorrow, or in the next instant, and they let pass too many opportunities, thinking that they will come again. One day, those opportunities will stop coming. One day, you will die. Realising one's mortality makes one more likely to want to start living. It is the best form of self motivation, or so I find.

Or, you may be thinking, "What kind of 17 year old girl writes in such a formal style, in this day and age? This is the 21st century!" Well, I reassure you, my friend, I do not always write as such, and I most certainly do not speak as such. Outwardly, I am as much like next girl as could be. Should a group of possible candidates be lined up, and you were asked to choose the writer of this journal based entirely on what you have learned so far about them by reading this, I assure you that I would not be the one you chose. By the end of this, you could easily single me out in a crowd, but from what I have written so far, you would not make the correct choice.

Let me help you. My name is Quinn Fabray. As I have told you, I am 17 years of age, to be 18 in September. A legal adult - it's a terrifying thought. I feel that I am incompetent to be a teenager, much less an adult. But I shall get used to it soon enough; life is a continuous cycle of things to get used to, is it not? First, you get used to people crooning at you as a baby, then you get used to sitting, then crawling, then walking. You get used to falling down, then used to getting back up again. You get used to feeding yourself, going to the toilet by yourself, dressing yourself, tying your own shoelaces. You get used to reading on your own, you get used to writing your own name, you get used to writing other words. You get used to being told what to do, you get used to learning, you get used to growing taller. You get used to wanting things, you get used to not always getting them. You get used to fights, you get used to arguments, you get used to compromises, you get used to negotiations. You get used to changing schools, you get used to changing friends. You get used to changing bodies, changing attitudes, changing wants. You get used to peer pressure, you get used to the loss of your childhood, you get used to not growing any more. You get used to not being the same person you always where, you get used to other people changing. You get used to their attitudes, their decisions, their quirks. You get used to growing older, you get used to new ideas so quickly that they soon become old ideas. You get used to living. You get used to getting used to things. Even you now, reading this, got used to the phrase "you get used to" and were probably even slightly surprised at a sentence not beginning with it. But now, with this being the second without using that phrase, you're used to not seeing it anymore. Is that not right? Life's a chain of getting used to things, the only difference for different people is where the different links happen in their lives. But I digress.

I am a high school student in Lima, Ohio, where I was once a cheerleader, but abandoned that sport to instead pursue my passion for music by focusing solely on my participation in our school's Glee Club. Glee Club, in case you are unaware, my dear friend, is a show choir. Fellow students and I gather during the afternoons to sing together, sometimes as a group, sometimes on our own. We are constantly challenged, either by our teacher, Mr Shuester, who hands us assignments, or by the songs we choose or are chosen for us, where we must work to hit particular notes. I must say that it is sometimes difficult and the other members of the club are sometimes utterly irritating, but end results are worth any of those obstacles.

Our club, New Directions, competes at Regionals each year, and if we place, are fortunate enough to receive an invitation to Sectionals, and then, should we be good enough to progress, we go through to Nationals. This past year, we worked hard enough to earn us a position at the Nationals competition, held in the grand city of New York. I must say, it was strange that one of the highest points of the year took place during my most emotional low of the year. Shall we put it down to life's ironies?

Why was it a low point? Boy troubles. Quite typical reasons for a 17 year old, as I'm sure you're aware. Unfortunately, it was nothing more spectacular than this. Sorry to disappoint. I'm afraid I may disappoint on numerous occasions, so I ask now for forgiveness from you, loyal reader. My stupidity sometimes astounds even myself. But I'm sure you can find it within your heart to forgive a poor girl who's tread a hard road. I should hope so, anyway. If you cannot, then I implore you to stop reading now; my story was not written to be read by you, oh heartless creature. It was only ever meant for those who carry compassion in their hearts and forgiveness in their souls. Should you be lacking in either, then I politely ask you to close this book, gently so as to not shake loose the pages which I'm certain will only be held to the spine by a single thread by the time I reach the end of this journal, and then proceed to your local park, where I again politely ask you this time to leave this book on a park bench where someone else may find it; hopefully, this time the right person. Thank you, I appreciate your cooperation and your time.

Still here? Why then, you must be a compassionate, forgiving person. For this, I laud you! It is difficult to find someone like you in the world. It would also help if you were kind and open hearted, as well as patient and slow to anger. These are traits which you will find become helpful in reading about this life of mine. If you don't believe you possess enough patience or anger management to continue, I will kindly ask you to dispose of this book as aforementioned, leaving it on a park bench so that it may find its way into another's hands. I'm sorry, my story is not for you either.

If you are still reading by this point, then I can only assume that you are the one: the one this story was meant to be read by. Already I shall beg your forgiveness again, this time for forcing you to read all of the above and asking you to question your personality. I wholeheartedly apologise. Also, I offer you a magnitude of gratitude for still being here. We are about to embark on an adventure, you and I, through days perilous and nights of reprieve, through high school days and emotional trauma. Are you ready to experience the journey with me? Are you sure? Yes? Well then, turn the page and proceed with caution, for this story is not all rainbows and butterflies.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: this is a much longer chapter than the last. Quinn talks about a childhood encounter and why she so desperately wanted to be Prom Queen.**

**Reviews, criticisms or any comments are more than welcome!**

I've always wanted a pet. I know it sounds like a rather mundane thing to say, but it's something which has been lately plaguing my mind. Although my sister and I had constantly begged our parents when we were younger to let us keep a pet, they'd always refused us. Our mother was allergic to dog hair, and father hated cats. They'd allowed us a myriad of smaller pets; fish, hamsters, guinea pigs and the like, but I'd never quite given up on my dream of owning a larger pet.

I think I should have liked to be the owner of a dog. Like my father, I'm not particularly fond of cats; as a child I was severely scratched by one along the length of my torso. It was a neighbour's cat and I had tried to pick it up. Unfortunately, she was not a particularly friendly cat and had sunk her claws into my flesh to get away. It worked. I dropped her, screaming in agony as lines of blood began soaking through the thin fabric of my shirt, and she bounded away, up and over the fence into someone else's yard. The scratches had later become infected and after a few days without improvement, my parents took me to hospital, where I was contained to a bed for several days, doctors and nurses pumping me full of antibiotics.

That was the first time I met my now fellow Glee clubber, Rachel Berry. I'm sure she's not got any recollection of that time, but I remember it vividly. For some inexplicable reason, the memory is burned into my mind, like a scar which runs too deep to ever fully heal. She had had a throat infection and her fathers, for Rachel Berry has two, were insisting that she be kept overnight in the hospital; they were not at all going to risk the infection getting worse and have their baby daughter lose her ability to sing. Even then they were confident that she was going to be a star.

So, despite doctors' reassurances that the prescribed antibiotics would clear up the infection in a matter of time, Rachel had spent the night in the bed next to mine. As is wont to happen when you place six year old girls together, we became friends. Little Quinn Fabray pulled herself out of bed, in spite of the urging of her parents to stay put, and hobbled over to the bed of the little brunette girl, fearlessly introducing herself. I was in pain, but never mind that, the prospect of making a new friend was, to my mind, worth any pain I was in. I had no intention of letting such opportunities pass by.

Rachel, holding her head high with immense confidence, despite her voice coming out in croaks, explained to me that she was going to be a Broadway star one day. I had no idea what a Broadway star was, so I nodded enthusiastically and told her it sounded awesome. I assumed it had something to do with space, but then she said she was in hospital because her dad thought the infection might affect her singing voice. At the time I had no inkling that by star she meant famous; the only stars I knew of were the ones in the velvety black night sky. I was slightly confused, but decided it wasn't important, and our six year old selves talked animatedly for hours, although, for the life of me, I cannot say what we discussed. However, I do remember our parents overseeing our strange friendship; mine still sitting beside my bed while I was a cubicle away, chattering with the dark haired, big eyed girl, and Rachel's fathers sitting beside her bed, not having the heart to explain to Rachel that talking so much would slow the healing process of her sore throat. I assume it is because the girl had never had many friends and they felt as though they should not destroy the opportunity she had been given; that we had both been given.

I myself was disappointed the next day when Rachel was made to leave the hospital, doctors promising that her voice would return to normal in several days, and I was forced to stay behind while they tended to my wounds. I'd grown to like the other girl with her big dreams which I didn't fully comprehend, beyond that they were grand and fabulous. I must admit that at the time, as I recall, I wanted to live in a castle, so it is not as though I had a very realistic perspective of life then, but even so, Rachel's dreams left me in awe. But what left a deeper impression on my six year old self was the way she spoke about them, as though she knew nothing was going to stop her from fighting to achieve them; as though she was certain that that was where she was born to be, what she was intended to do with her life. Even at six years old, Rachel Berry had more certainty about what she was doing with her life than most adults do.

Her resolve seems only to have strengthened with time, and although she does not know it, I admire her for her determination. I wonder what she would think if she realised that the little girl she met in hospital all those years ago is the same one who on a daily basis made her high school life a living hell. I believe she'd be disappointed in me. It shames me to think of it, thus the resolution I bound myself to recently, that I would stop treating her like I dislike her, and begin to treat her like the friend I thought she was going to become when we were six years old. It's going to be challenging, and we are going to have to undo the habits of years, but if there's any one person I believe would forgive me for my appalling treatment of them, it would be Rachel.

Unfortunately, in spite of the promises we extorted from both our sets of parents about letting us continue our friendship outside the hospital ward, we never did. It was only as I grew older that I began to realise my parents' reasons for this, but I will never forgive them for not putting prejudices aside and encouraging a new friendship. Rachel's gay fathers were the driving reason for my parents never allowing Rachel and I a chance to be friends, because homosexuality was against Christianity, and Christianity was their lives. My parents' narrow world view robbed me of a chance at friendship. In a way, I must thank them for their narrow mindedness, for, without it, I would never have learnt to appreciate the value of keeping an open mind and an even kinder heart.

Parents are supposed to pass on values to their children, and mine did, even if in a rather round about way; instead of impressing their values on me, I learnt from them exactly who I did not want to be: I never wanted to exclude someone from my life simply because I was taught to disagree with their lifestyle. My parents did ingrain in me a respect for religion, and instilled in me many of the values of Christianity, but there are some aspects of the religion I will never conform to, no matter how strong my faith may be. If anything, the lessons I took included acceptance of everyone, not "acceptance of everyone, except those whose lifestyles we deem as wrong" and thus, I have tried to uphold that acceptance. I feel that I would not be staying true to myself if I lived in any other way.

You may be thinking "You are incredibly hypocritical. One moment ago you proclaimed that you made Rachel Berry's life torturous, and now you are claiming to be accepting of everyone," and I must admit, you are correct in your observations. In all honesty, I began my transformation from the person who derived pleasure from degrading other people to the girl who was ashamed of her such actions and wanted to make everything right only a little over a year ago. More recently I lapsed back into the person I was before, simply because that was the attitude I'd grown so used to wearing all my life that reclaiming that particular mantle was a much easier way of dealing with my problems than trying to carve out a new, unfamiliar way.

My self esteem was built entirely on the crumbling remains of other people's and the only way I felt that I was worth anything was when I was making others feel belittled, intimidated, and worthless. But the rubble I used to create a castle for myself collapsed entirely when I joined the Glee club and I hence became one of the people I used to bully. Instead of being the one who was striking fear into others, I was the one who was in fear. In a matter of months, I fell from the pinnacle of the school's social ladder to the very, very bottom. It was then that I realised how unfair and unkind I'd been to people and I vowed that I would not treat them like that again.

However, this year brought the opportunity to reclaim my position at the top of the school by winning the Prom Queen title, and I reverted back into the ruthless girl I had been before, all in order to win. I'm not proud of my behaviour. I know I was wrong, and although I'm going to try explain my reasons behind it, I just want you to know that I'm not trying to shirk the responsibility of my actions. I knew what I was doing, I knew I was going to hurt people, I just couldn't muster up the ability to care about that. I was more concerned with helping myself than being kind to others. I hope you don't judge me too harshly for my stupidity and selfishness and at least take the time to try understand why I acted the way I did.

Going from the top of the school to the bottom was a gruelling trial, and not one that I at all enjoyed. Do you have any idea what it is like for that to happen? One moment I was the queen of the school, everyone was terrified of me - they practically parted like the Red Sea any time I walked through corridors. After joining Glee club, respect for me plummeted and I would get slushied, which, in case you've no idea what that is, involved getting a slushie thrown in your face or dumped on top of your head. The tiny particles of flavoured ice would get everywhere; they would sting your eyes for hours, they would soak through your clothes, leaving permanent stains in the process, they would slide down your torso and leave you shivering and smelling like whichever flavour you happened to be slushied with for the rest of the day. I used to be the one who instigated those against other people; to suffer it myself was utterly humiliating, degrading and was a clear sign of what the student body now thought of me.

To be fair, once I began experiencing it for myself, I stopped ordering that others be hit with a slushie attack, but the damage had been done. Our cheerleading coach, Ms Sylvester lost all respect for me, my squad no longer respected me as a member and the jocks who had found me so attractive before, all took turns at laughing at me whenever I walked past.

The only people I had to turn to were the Glee Club, but most of them disliked me because I'd victimised them in the past. Especially Rachel Berry. Thinking over it all though, I do believe that Rachel disliked anyone who was a threat to her. However, Rachel was an easy target to tease and bully because as badly as you treated her, the next day she'd bounced back and was as determined as ever to reach her dreams. She was fun to bully because she was so difficult to completely break. True, we would send her home in tears, but never did she come to school dejected and depressed. If she had, we probably would have stopped; there was no point in torturing someone who showed no response. If she'd learnt that, she would have saved herself years of trouble. I'm incredibly ashamed that for three years I constantly hounded her like she was the bane of my existence. I still wonder what our relationship would be like should she ever remember or be told about that time in hospital when we were six. I wonder whether she'd feel any differently about me. But anyhow, I've digressed again.

Prom was my opportunity to be back on top. If I won, everyone's respect would be restored, Glee Club or not; I would no longer have to worry about being slushied again, I wouldn't have to hide my face from the ridicule and I wouldn't have to be ashamed for not wearing the Cheerio's uniform anymore, having quit after Coach Sylvester tried to go one stunt too far; there's a difference between athleticism and sending someone on a suicide mission.

I became obsessed with winning the title of Prom Queen. I would stop by the glass display exhibiting the crown and stare at it, envisioning it on my very own head. I put up posters, I campaigned. Prom Queen was the ultimate popularity contest, and yes, I'll even admit, that a small part of my being with Finn Hudson, my boyfriend at the time, was because I knew it would improve our chance of winning the titles of Prom King and Queen. Don't judge too harshly, reader, remember you're observing the mentality of a 17 year old girl who lost some of the most important things in her life. I'll admit, despite the fact it's only been a short time since Prom, I've matured a lot; much more than I thought would have been possible. Perhaps some of my new found maturity was a direct result of not winning what I so desperately wanted. In any case, I'm able to recognise my then behaviour as abhorrent.

But dear reader, do you know what it's like to want something so badly that you literally yearn for it every waking moment? Do you know what it's like to have that taken away from you in a single heartbeat? I'll tell you. It's soul crushing. It's as though your stomach drops out of your torso, it's like your breath is ripped from your body, it's like your heart is frozen mid-beat. It's as though your whole world ends, because in a sense, it has; all those dreams you indulgently allowed yourself are torn to shreds right before your eyes. They vanish, as though there was never a chance, and you're left with a gaping hole in your heart, an emptiness you hadn't realised you possessed because you'd been so sure that you would fill it.

That's what it was like. Right there on stage, in front of the entire school, my world ended. Any chance of being someone again were shot down, riddled by the bullets of students' votes. It showed me what they really thought of me. I genuinely believed that I'd had a chance at winning, but no, I was sorely mistaken; the cruelty of the school went completely over my head, even though for a long time, I'd been just as cruel as they. The ultimate blow of their cruelty fell on my fellow Glee clubber, Kurt Hummel. The only openly gay student in our school, the way they repaid him was by mockingly voting him Prom Queen.

I'm sure it's always been Kurt's dream to be voted Prom Queen, but I'm certain he didn't envision it the way it happened. In fact, I'm sure that to him it was nothing more than a fantasy that he knew was impossible, but there on that night, while everyone was dressed in their best, his dream came true with a cruel blow. But I admire him for the way he handled it; the boy has much more self control and a braver heart than anyone has ever given him credit for.

The result crushed the dream of three girls that night; my own, and those of Santana Lopez and Lauren Zizes. We had each wanted it so badly; you only get one Prom, after all. But we survive, as we must. I think our trip to New York took the sting off. Being so far away from home in such a magnificent place, competing for something much bigger, the Prom Queen saga was put into perspective for us. Still, we each have to return to school in the fall, and face the possibility of more humiliation by our peers. Never so much have I dreaded going back to those classrooms, those corridors, that locker, that student body. My only consolation is that no matter how bad it may get, it is my last year at that school. Then it'll be goodbye school, hello world. I cannot wait.


	3. Chapter 3

In an attempt to balance out the rather depressing recount of Prom, I'll continue with something rather happier, a childhood memory. When I was young, my daddy built me a tree house in the branches of the oak tree in our back yard. Even though it is located in the lowest branches, it is still quite some distance from the ground and I recall my mother being anxious about letting me climb the tree to get into the house. Daddy, however, had no such qualms; he trusted my ability and my common sense to be prudent when climbing. He was right to trust. Never once did I slip and fall, in all my years of going up and down. That is not say of course, that I will not in the future continue to be so lucky, but I believe it is significant that I have not yet had that misfortune.

The tree house became my personal hideout, the place I spent more time in than any other. There was nothing I enjoyed more than rushing home after school, flinging my schoolbag aside, hurriedly changing out of my uniform and then dashing to the tree house to settle down with a book for the rest of the afternoon. When daddy saw how much I loved the place, he hired an electrician to extend the power lines to the tree and paid him to install a light. It was the best thing he could possibly have done, as it meant I no longer had to leave once it got dark and often I would lie curled on the bean bag with my book, reading until well after night had fallen. Those days are the best memories I have.

The tree house was my personal space, more so than even my bedroom. In my mind, my bedroom was synonymous with sleep and homework and noise, whereas the tree house was equated to pleasure and privacy. It was my safe haven and in fact, still is. Often you may find me sitting up there amongst the leaves, reading away, or with my laptop, typing up some journey from within the well of my imagination.

I remember one spring, the air was crisp and fresh and I'd been sitting in the tree house, when a fantastic suggestion floated up through my brain and washed over all my other thoughts, like a gentle wave against the shore. I voiced this suggestion to daddy and Papa Fabray, my father's father, excited and full of exuberance:

"Daddy, I just had an idea! What if the tree house had a balcony? And then it would be like a proper house!"

"Well, isn't that quite the idea," I remember him remarking, looking at me as though he was seeing me for the first time.

And the next day, the two of them were outside, hammers and nails in hand, constructing a balcony for the tree house. It ran around two sides of the house and rested atop several of the branches which twisted away from the oak's thick trunk. That summer, despite his many reservations about it, daddy and I had installed a hammock on that brand new balcony, and most days were spent lying about, staring at the impossibly blue sky through the canopy of leaves, soaking in the dappled light which filtered down through the branches. My vehement assurances that I would not fall out of the hammock, "daddy, daddy, I won't, I promise!" thankfully had not fallen on deaf ears.

I recount these things to you, dear reader, because I believe someone's favourite place in the world reveals a lot about them. Now, the tree house is a symbol for my childhood, my innocence; my lost days. It was where I was most unabashedly myself. It's the only place, apart from this journal, where I was unafraid to just be who I was, without obligations to conform to society's ideals.

My sister, Frannie, was welcome in the house, but she preferred her bedroom, where she would talk on the phone for hours, or over the Internet with friends. She came up a few times, but mostly, she avoided the tree house. So we all came to see it as my space, the place you would find me when I was nowhere else to be found. One day, Frannie even presented me with a plaque which she'd made and painted herself.

"This is for you," she'd said, handing me a small rectangular package, crudely, but effectively wrapped, even if it was with far more tape than was necessary. I'd unwrapped it to find the cute little sign. It said "Quinnie's Tree House." It still hangs over the front door, weathered and askew, but I've never been compelled to take it down, or even straighten it. Its crookedness lends a personality to the house.

The only person who ever came into the house was daddy. He and I would spend hours talking about the latest book I was reading; he made suggestions for things I might like and promised, in turn, that he would read the books I asked him to. Conversations followed in the vein of:

"Of course I'll read Harry Potter, but only if you promise your old dad that you'll read Stephen King when you're older."

"I will! I will!" I used to faithfully promise, nodding my head and grinning from ear to ear. I'd made a list of things I had to read, as promised to daddy. I've still not gotten more than halfway through that list. In fairness, I did make an attempt at reading Stephen King, but didn't find it as appealing as dad had made it sound and an urge to read any more of his novels was put on hold while I continued my own reading.

Books, dear reader, were a huge part of my childhood, my early adolescent years, and even today, I do not pass more than a single day without at least continuing one chapter further of the novel I am currently reading. Books are a treasure trove to me, a bottomless well of adventure and imagination, escapism and inspiration. They have been better friends to me over the years than people. When I had no one else to turn to, I turned to my books. They took my mind off the things which tainted my days and in turn, imbibed me with wisdom and knowledge and a thirst for greater things.

If we are being honest, I cannot think of the tree house without recalling books and the days I spent reading. Every side of the small space is lined with shelves, except for a niche in the back left corner, left as a place for me to sit while I read. Not all the shelves are full. They will, of course, fill eventually, but I am careful about which novels I choose to place there. I wish to own only the ones which mean something to me.

I am also very particular about how they are ordered; I follow a system as meticulously as a librarian might. From left to right, the shelves represent a timeline of my life through books. In the far left there are my first picture books, followed by the picture book version of the Disney classic cartoons, of which I'm certain I have the entire collection, and on the top shelf, to the very left, is the very first book in my little library: my battered and worn version of the Holy Bible. It holds the most significant position on my shelf, just as it holds a significant position in my heart.

I shall never escape my Christian upbringing; it is as much a part of me as the creases in my skin and the stories within its pages are to me what fairytales are like to other people. That is not to say, of course, that I have never strayed from the proverbial straight and narrow path, because all too often, I have. It is just that religion will be as important to me as breathing; deeply significant, and essential to living, but not thought about all the time. As I see it, we all have our moments of weakness, do we not, and we cannot spend our lives trying to be perfect. I'm certain you too, dear reader, have broken from your religion sometime in your past. And I guarantee that you most likely will again. Human beings, by nature, are terrible at always obeying rules and conventions. For the most part, this is frowned upon, but if you spare a moment to consider, you would realise that without breaking convention, the human race would not have progressed as far as it has. We would still be riding around on horses on dirt roads and living in one room shacks made of mud bricks. Breaking rules is one of the keys to innovation. Anyhow, the point I was trying to convey is that there are certain things you can never leave behind. For me, religion is one of them; another is the memory of that tree house.

Perhaps one day I'll find someone I trust enough to invite up into it. So far, there has been no one. And now that my parents are divorced, and my sister is off at college, there is no one apart from myself in this house who has ever been inside the tree house. Mom could never muster the courage to climb the tree when it was first built, and now, as a sign of respect for me and my privacy, will not try. I'm grateful to her for that; there are too many memories which linger there, and I'm almost afraid that her presence would disturb them, stirring them up and erasing them like a layer of dust.

I know I have spent pages of this journal talking about this tree house, because that's where I write today, and I wanted to convey to you how important it is to me. There are few people I have considered bringing up here, and even fewer to whom I have even mentioned its existence. The first of the people I considered, but never brought up was Rachel Berry, all those years ago, when the house was new, the wood unweathered and unscarred and to a six year old mind, the prospect of sharing an intimate space with a new friend was exciting. But as I have already said, I never brought anyone up here. In fact, none of my closest friends are even aware of it. It feels like a private part of myself which should always be kept close; a secret which can only be revealed to the closest of friends. I almost fear that if I mention my tree house, I would have to then explain all the memories, and all the things which happened within its walls. I feel that the two go hand in hand and that to mention one would mean that I was obliged to tell of the other. I'm not ready to tell anyone in person of what went on there during my childhood, thus, I pen it here, to you, whom I have never met, and after everything I tell you and have told you, I pray to God to never meet. I can envision any possible meeting between us as such:

"Oh, you're that Quinn Fabray, the girl who likes reading, the one who didn't win Prom Queen, who was viciously attacked by a cat when she was six," you'd say and I would stand there in embarrassment, eyes searching your face for how much you really knew about me; whether you read this entire journal, or whether you stopped after the first few entries.

"And who are you?" I would probably ask, not really caring about that, and worrying more about how you could possibly know those things about me. My mind would start reasoning that you'd heard those things somewhere, that you didn't necessarily read this journal, that there were other ways you could know those things - wishful thinking.

"I read your journal! I found it just sitting there in the park so I picked it up and read it!" you'd reply, but of course, I'd already known this - despite trying to escape that conclusion, it was the only one my mind realised made sense. I'd probably be in a panic by now; my breaths would be coming shallower and faster, my heart would have picked up its pace as though it were a runaway train and my mind would be darting about, trying to determine the best escape route; or possibly considering the best way to kill you and get away with it. I don't think there are any lime pits in Lima…

I'm only joking, reader. I'm strange and sometimes insane, but I'm not homicidal. Trust me. Would I lie to you? And yes, as serious a style as I may have adopted within these pages, I actually do possess a sense of humour, even if an odd one.

But do you understand, my friend, what I have described? I wonder if you do. I hope you realise just how much I am revealing to you by even mentioning my tree house. Already, stranger, you know more about my life than my oldest friends. I do hope that you realise how much it takes out of me to pen this. Do you have a place like my tree house, reader? Do you understand where I am coming from? Did you ever trust anyone enough to let them in?

I weathered some of my darkest days in that house, as well as those days I think fondly of; but life isn't all summer time and warmth and now and again, winter seeped into my life and broke its storms over my head. This tree house has seen me through many more changes, many more personal times than anything and anyone else in my life. I intend to reveal those hardships to you, dear friend, thus my burning need to impress upon you my feelings about this tree house. I feel that if you understand how safe I felt there, compared to anywhere else in the world, then you will understand how much effort it is going to take me to be honest with you here. I'm doing more than merely penning a story here; I am also revealing a soul - the soul which none, other than my beloved tree house, have ever seen.

The first disaster my tree house and I faced together was the death of my grandmother, Nana Fabray. I was seven years old. Nana Fabray had been a light in my life; a woman whom I trusted wholeheartedly, and loved almost more than my own parents. She was the woman who ignited a passion for reading within me. Some of my earliest memories involve sitting on her lap and listening to her read Dr Seuss books to me. She had the perfect reading voice, imbuing the text with the richness of humanity and emotion that it lacked upon the pages. She taught me to read and one of my proudest moments was there at her knee, upon my first completion of out loud reading; I even still remember the book, so great a memory that it is: Dr Seuss' _Oh, the Places You'll Go!_ which, incidentally, is still my favourite of his books.

"Listen love," Nana Fabray would say, referring _to Oh, the Places You'll Go! _"this here book tells you everything you ever need to know about life. Whenever you feel like you haven't any strength to continue, look to this book and it'll get you going again. Keep it beside you always as a reminder."

I have done so. I was young when she passed from this life, and that, I believe, spared me from the full feeling of loss, the one adults experience, but I was not totally unaffected. I was not yet old enough to feel that sense of hollowness, but old enough to understand that Nana had gone to a place from whence she would never return; I cried for days on end when I realised exactly what that meant, hiding in the tree house and not talking to anyone.

When Nana Fabray died, I read and reread and read again that little book, with its brilliant rhymes and zany illustrations, taking in its words and advice and all the while remembering Nana and sitting on her knee and all the reading I did there. Though my copy is worn and, some would say, sorry looking for all the times that I thumbed its pages, I prefer to say that it has been well loved, just like Nana Fabray. It is the same copy she gave me when I was a little girl and to part with it would feel like permanently parting from her. That's the reason I will not let anyone touch that book, nor let them replace it. Within its pages, Nana Fabray still exists and I cannot read the words without hearing them in her voice. That alone has kept me fighting at times. I do believe I inherited both my strength and my confidence from Nana Fabray. She, with the help of Dr Seuss' words, inspired me. And still continues to be an inspiration.

_Congratulations!  
>Today is your day.<br>You're off to Great Places!  
>You're off and away!<em>

**Author's note/Disclaimer: The part in italics is the opening bit of Dr Seuss' "Oh, the Places You'll Go!" which obviously I don't own. **_  
><em>


	4. Chapter 4

I lied to you. It wasn't a big lie, I promise, but it was a lie nonetheless. I know I said I wouldn't, but I did. My name isn't Quinn Fabray. Or rather, it is, but it is not the name I was given at birth. The name bestowed upon me by my parents when I had entered the world was Lucy. Thus, my name in fact, is Lucy Fabray. Quinn is my middle name, but I infinitely prefer it to Lucy.

In the summer between middle school and high school, my family moved across town. I was hoping that high school would be infinitely better than my middle school experience. You see, the blonde, athletic, pretty girl I am now did not then exist. Lucy Fabray was chubby, wore glasses with lenses too big to serve any real purpose, had brown hair and was bullied to no end. She had no friends and was miserable. Those were the lowest days of my life. I was diagnosed with clinical depression and despite the many hours spent in a therapist's office, the depression only slightly eased.

Have you ever been so unhappy with yourself that you would do anything to achieve the happiness you knew you deserved? I have.

"Lucy Caboosey," is what they used to call me, along with other things, like "Four Eyes," "Fatso," and "Chubby Cheeks." I hated the way I looked. Wouldn't you, if you were being made fun of all the time? I was insecure, I cried all the time, and going to school was like living through a nightmare everyday. Nightmares are supposed to end when you opened your eyes, but this one only began when I opened them. So I did what I had to do in that summer break between middle school and high school to ensure that I wouldn't be bullied any longer. I was going to a different school from the one everyone from middle school was going to, on account of us moving across town, and I knew that was my one big chance to change who I was and begin living the life I'd always wanted to.

First, I dyed my hair. Gone were the scruffy brown locks which I'd been with all my life and sitting in their place, newly bleached, were blonde strands. The girls who made fun of me were blonde, and having wanted nothing more than to fit in with them over the course of my middle school years, I thought the best chance I had at being popular at my new school was to look something like them. Of course this meant that I regularly had to redye my hair, but that was a small price to pay.

Next, I snapped my massively framed glasses in half and threw them in the trash. "Four Eyes" was gone, replaced with a girl who seemingly had perfect eyesight. In truth, a visit to the optometrist later with a request, I went home with contact lenses. I was unsure of putting them on at first; shoving things into your eyes was a foreign concept to me and completely unnatural, but remember when I talked about adaptation before? Well, this was merely another thing I became adapted to doing. I still wear them, and barely anybody knew until this past year, when one Lauren Zizes, in an attempt to sabotage my Prom Queen campaign, dug up my entire past, including Lucy Caboosey, and then went on to reveal it to the entire student body.

That was one of the worst moments of my life, but do you know, dear reader, I was also relieved. It meant I no longer had anything to hide; the crippling secret I'd been carrying around with me throughout high school was gone - it was out, I didn't have to be afraid of someone finding out, because they already had. Suddenly, I could breathe again; the weight which had been pressing itself against my ribcage and lungs was gone and I could breathe. I felt like a woman who'd just taken off a tight corset and felt her lungs expand to their full for the first time. Dear reader, it was a glorious feeling. The best part was that people's reactions weren't as terrible as I thought they were going to be. They laughed for a little bit, but soon were on to the next topic of conversation. It almost makes me think that I should have revealed it earlier. But nevermind that. "What's done is done," as Lady Macbeth so famously said.

Over that summer, I discovered athleticism. This was something I had despised during middle school because of the way I was always excluded due to my being unpopular. But during that break, I found that I quite enjoyed the exercise when there was no one there to ridicule me. I began sports; dancing, gymnastics, then eventually, cheerleading. The weight I'd been carrying began disappearing, as though it was melting away. Not only was I physically lighter, but I was emotionally lighter too. I felt happy with myself, I was happy with how I felt, I was almost happy with the way I looked.

I say almost happy with the way I looked because there was just one more thing: my nose. I'd never been happy with it. I'd never been teased about it, but I'm sure that had I been thinner then they would have. So, when my father got a pay rise, I asked to make the final change to my appearance, one that was almost entirely a vanity adjustment. When he said yes, I was off to the nearest plastic surgeon. Yes, when I was almost 15, I got a nose job.

"You're too young!" you may be thinking, and I suppose you're probably right, but when you're desperate to never be in a situation where you're constantly harassed because of how you look, you'd do anything in your power to make sure it never happens again. That, for me, meant having that cosmetic surgery. I'll most likely never do it again, but I did what I had to do at the time. After the surgery I felt more confident, like I could look at the impending start of high school and not feel dread, the way I had just weeks before. And to be honest, dear reader, my plan worked. I began high school, I attracted people who were like me, who dreamt the same dreams as I, who had the same interests. I joined the Cheerios, the school's cheer squad, and after that first year, was chosen by both the outgoing captain and Coach Sylvester to be the next head Cheerio. I was on top of the school.

All this I did, by the way, under the name of Quinn Fabray. Lucy was someone else, that fat girl who was mercilessly teased, and I didn't want the memory of that lingering into the new life I was trying to build, so I asked my parents to start calling me Quinn. This wasn't too difficult, as I'd always preferred that name in the past and they had called me that before, rather than Lucy. It was just that now they would refer to me as Quinn exclusively, rather than Quinn in private and Lucy to other people. It was very much a case of out with the old and in with the new.

I was happy, so, so happy, dear reader at my transformation. I was head Cheerio, I was dating the captain of McKinley's football team, Finn Hudson, and everyone wanted to be me. I was cruel, this is true, to those who were strange, unusual or had dreams different than those that everyone else had, such as Rachel Berry, but this was only to be expected. If I had not acted the way I did towards her, I would not have been as respected. No body, my friend, respects someone at the top if they are not cruel towards those at the bottom. If I had been as kind as I had wanted to be, I would have fallen, and all that I had changed about myself would have been in vain. I regret it now, as I am at the bottom again, but at the time, I did what was expected of me.

I'm writing this to you, and I know you'll read it and wonder why. In all honesty, I did not start with a particular intent. But as I have written, I have discovered a purpose.

"Don't you ever show any emotion?" Finn once asked me when he was breaking up with me. Admittedly it was after a funeral, so I should have been more emotional than I was; I believe he felt cheated that I only shed a single tear.

"I never know where I stand with you," he told me another time.

It's true, reader, what he said. To the outside world I am hard and cold, tying you close, but keeping you far, so you never truly know where you and I stand in relation to one another. The fact of the matter is that I've always been afraid of showing just how much people mean to me; should they understand, then they could hurt me - it would become a vulnerability. If there's one thing that Quinn Fabray hates, it's being vulnerable.

Distance thus meant that you thought you meant something important to me, but you were never quite certain. You stuck by because you wanted to know if you meant as much to me as I meant to you. The truth? My friends always meant the world to me, even if they didn't know it. Believe me when I say, reader, that I care deeply, it is just that I am incapable of ostentatious displays of affection; they embarrass me and say too much about how I am feeling.

And it's too hard to say goodbye if the other person knows how much you care.

Goodbyes are a part of life as inevitable as tomorrows. As inevitable as hellos, as it stands. But goodbyes are always much more difficult to bear. When I was seven, I said goodbye to Nana Fabray. Several years later, Papa Fabray followed suit - he never was the same after his wife died. Two years ago, I farewelled my sister to college; not a permanent goodbye, but a difficult one nonetheless. And finally, last year, the most difficult goodbye in a long, long list of goodbyes, most of which aren't mentioned, I had to see my father turn his back on our family because my mother realised that his way of life was staunching the growth of love within our household.

I will never forgive him for that act of cowardice. Instead of staying to fight, he threw up his arms and walked away. Don't misunderstand me, reader, I loved my daddy, but when he ordered me out of his house when I revealed my pregnancy, he lost my respect and much of my love; daddy stopped being 'daddy' and instead became 'father'.

Oh, yes, I was a pregnant teenager. Sorry I haven't mentioned it before now. I was 16 years old and carrying my first child. The story is a long one, and I'll doubtless have time to tell it to you later, but I must first get to my point. Forgive me for being longwinded; I did warn you that I rambled, when you and I first embarked on this journey together, did I not?

My point is, I do not let anybody in, past the defences I have spent years building simply because saying goodbye is too difficult and because I've learnt from experience that the ones you care about the most are the ones who will hurt you beyond repair. Thus, to the point I originally began explaining to you before getting sidetracked once again, is that the purpose of this journal, resting in your hands as you sit beside your little lamp, giving off its yellow light glow in the middle of the night, is for me to record all those things I could never say, never show. This little book here, filled with my almost illegible scrawl, contains all the emotions and all the truths I've been too afraid to admit to, the ones I've tried desperately to keep from the world. It's allowed me a chance at honesty I've never before given myself for fear of being ridiculed, looked down upon, or yet again, hurt. That's why I've continued telling my story, dredging up my history, and timidly putting forth my dreams. You haven't judged, have you, dear reader? You won't look down on me, will you stranger? You won't use this information to your advantage, will you?

Or should I be afraid of you? Should I be padlocking every entrance into my house? Should I just stop my writing here and burn the book while I have the chance, before anyone alive is allowed to read it?

No, I won't do that. I'd be burning away a part of my soul. Every time I open this journal, I leave behind another part of myself; I cannot simply see that go up in ashes.

The hardest part is not knowing who you are. Have we met before? Are you someone I may have passed in the street? Would I know your face if I saw it? Lima is not a big place, could I have run into you before? It's entirely possible, is it not?

The other difficult thing about writing all this for you to read, stranger, is that I've not the slightest clue about how you are reacting to everything that you're learning about me. Does my life shock you? Do you think I have been through too many terrible things for a 17 year old? Do you think much more of it is my fault than I admit to? Do you think I should have handled things differently? Do you agree with my choices? What about my attitudes? What are your opinions on those? Do you feel sympathy for me? Do you pity me? Do I disgust you?

But the most important question, in my mind, that I would like to put to you, dear reader is this: do you understand?

If your answer to that question was "Yes," then any other opinion you may have of me will be absorbed by the armour I have spent my life perfecting to protect me. Too long I have been without someone to understand and the most miserable people in existence are those who are misunderstood. Being misunderstood lead to many a dark thing.

Can I share something with you, reader? Do you know of that underworld of depressed teenagers? The ones who hurt so much they haven't the slightest clue what do to about it? They are so mockingly called "emo" now by society, as though their emotions can be laughed at, as though their depression isn't a serious issue. Others try to emulate their looks, their attitudes and society, for a short while, deemed it acceptable and even 'cool'. Let me tell you, dear friend, it is the furthest thing from cool. Depression is a mental illness which mostly goes untreated because of the stigma attached to it. The vast majority of people wrongly believe that depression is a personal sign of weakness and that admitting to it is an outward display of that weakness.

I suffered from it. 9.5% of Americans will suffer from it each year. 15% of them will commit suicide. I was nearly one of them. This past year was not as good as I pretended that it was. The confident girl often hides her depression behind smiles; the girl who stands next to you in the queue staring quietly into the distance could be holding back the tears which threaten to overwhelm her at any given moment. Or, even, you know that boy, the popular one, the quarterback, he too secretly struggles to hide his pain. He cannot admit that the cuts which cover his arms are by his own doing. And the cheerleader hides her own cuts with the length of her shirt.

That is how I hid my cuts, at least. Hips are a remarkably discreet place to run a blade across your skin. No one can see the angry red lines which crisscross your skin there. If no one can see them, then no one is able to question you. I cut almost everyday. Most days not because anything was wrong, but because I was compelled to do so, the way an alcoholic is compelled to walk into every liquor store they pass, or, even, the way I was compelled to begin writing this journal. The feeling of the blade against soft flesh was so wrong, but so good. I cannot describe it to you, dear reader. I knew it wasn't right to hurt myself, but it was the only way I felt better; it was as though if I released enough blood through the cuts, I could ease some of the feelings which ran through my veins. It was a way of making the emotional pain I felt manifest in a physical form; physical pain is always easier to bear than emotional. I was a very bad state of my life; worse even than when I'd been called Lucy Caboosey.

"Are you ok?"

"I'm fine," that was the question and the response that was frequently conveyed between myself and various people. No one need know the truth about me, I used to think.

Pretending that everything is ok is so easy and the lies flowed so freely that it is terrifying. I've amazed myself countless times because of the ease I have with lying. A smile hides so many things and a short temper is the best defence, I have found, because people are too wary to try prying.

In New York, I seriously considered taking my own life. I was sitting in the bathroom of the room we all shared, staring at myself in the mirror, the way I used to look at myself when I was 14 and still Lucy Fabray. I made lists in my head: why I should live, why I shouldn't, who would miss me, who wouldn't, what was wrong with me, what was wrong with the world. Words, phrases, images, memories all spun through my mind, each breaking down the self worth I had spent three years building and I sat there with a bathtub full of water and curling iron in hand, ready to plunge the electrical device into the freezing cold water. I was talking myself into doing it, I was crying, I could barely see my reflection through the tears.

"Quinn! _Quinn_! Hurry up and quit hogging the bathroom!" those were the words which saved my life. I'll never be more grateful for the existence of my fellow Glee clubbers, notably Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce, who I could break down in front of and not have them condemn me as a crazy woman. Santana suggested a haircut as a remedy to my state of mind, and I must say, it did help. The short locks which now grace my head reignited a spark of confidence within myself and I could stand with my head high again.

Consider, reader, had Santana not knocked on the bathroom door, angrily demanding my exit, I could be lying in a coffin at this very moment. She saved my life, and she had no idea that she did it. Are you as thankful as I am for that moment? I cannot ever express the depth of my gratitude to her; I'm indebted to her beyond her knowledge. It is also because of her that I face the world with newfound confidence and grace; and of course, a new hairstyle.

**Author's Note: I didn't make up the stats about depression in America. They come from this website:**

.com/depression_


	5. Chapter 5

My soul yearns for things, indefinable things, abstract things, like love and happiness. Also, bigger things, like security and a faith in my future. I used to wish for them, until I realised all my wishes were absorbed by the universe as though they didn't matter; or maybe God just decided the time wasn't right for me. In any case, I've stopped the wishing; I've learned to wait.

"Patience is a virtue," it is said and I have been trying to be a more patient woman. I've always been a little impatient; sometimes I would jump straight to the back of the book because I so desperately wanted to know what would happen. Some would say that this ruins the story, but personally, I thought it made the whole thing a more worthwhile experience. Sometimes I wish I could jump to the ending of my story, just to find out how it all goes, to put my mind to rest. Will I get to where I always wanted? Will things work out? If I knew that, I would lead a quieter life. I like certainty.

Ah, I hear you say, "but certainty is boring! The beauty of life is not knowing what's around the next corner!" Well, to a certain extent, I agree with you. I want certainty of the bigger picture, in things like knowing if I will live a long and happy life, but I am not so concerned about the details. I would like the details to remain a mystery, so I may take each day as it comes, but the certainty that everything will work out fine in the end would be a nice thing to have, don't you think?

I used to be certain that I could turn to my mother and father for anything; when I wanted something, when I needed help, when I had to cry, even when I had something to laugh about. That certainty crumbled last year. Father kicked me out of the house, my mother let him, and then they got divorced. Mom came and collected me from my friend Mercedes' house, where I was living at the time, and the two of us moved back across town to my childhood house, the one with the tree house, where we live now. We hadn't sold the house when we moved, merely put it up for lease as an extra source of income and a lucky thing too, because the day came when we had a need for it. Father still lives in the other house because it's more convenient for where he works. Ours is rather far from school, but I do drive, so it is not too big an inconvenience for me. Besides, I enjoy driving.

I used to be certain that I would stay in Lima and be a real estate agent. That certainty too has crumbled. Our Glee Club trip to New York City changed a lot of things for me. It not only gave me a new confidence and zest for life, but it showed me that the world was bigger than Lima, Ohio, and that perhaps I should be dreaming bigger as a consequence. I'm no longer sure that real estate is the right career for me. I always saw myself in that job, but if I'm being honest with you, reader, I never imagined myself enjoying it; I only imagined enjoying the wealth which I thought would accompany it. In actual fact, I do believe I would be miserable in that job.

On that note, I'm not sure what I would prefer doing with my life. As much as I enjoy cheerleading, my quitting the squad has hurt any chances I might have had as a professional cheerleader. I don't think I would have liked that anyhow; there's only so much your body can handle before it begins to break down and athletes' bodies have a habit of disintegrating quickly if fitness is not maintained. Also, I love the singing and dancing of Glee Club, but I'm realistic enough to recognise that I have not the talented vocals of Rachel, Mercedes or Santana, and I certainly cannot dance half as well as Brittany. Music will forever be a part of my life, but most likely as a hobby, a past time, not a profession.

Perhaps I could turn my passion for reading into a career. Editing, perhaps? I'm not sure. I do know, however, that I am particularly fond of children and this past year, I spent a significant amount of time with the younger siblings of my ex-boyfriend, friend and fellow Glee member, Sam Evans, and I immensely enjoyed that time. So perhaps that is a clue as to what I should be pursuing. I do wonder if I would do well in a primary teaching position.

It is my understanding that the last year of high school is where you are supposed to make the choice which decides the rest of your life, but in actuality, this is far from the truth. The only thing you really choose is a college, and even that can change.

I've always known that senior year would be important in terms of choosing a place to go to college and I also know that my parents always assumed that I would go to Ohio State University. I'm not so sure. What I do know is that convincing 18 year olds that the decision they make on which college and which course they choose is going to affect their entire lives is ridiculous. It may affect part of their lives, because let's face it, dear reader, people don't stay in the same job their entire lives. To quote Taylor Swift, because I believe she so nicely sums it up: "People are people and sometimes we change our minds." Actually, 'sometimes' is an understatement; we change our minds quite frequently. College students switch courses all the time; I know my sister has done so, I know some of her friends have also done so. Sometimes the thing we choose isn't what we thought it would be and we decide to try something else. 18 year olds are still trying to work out themselves; it is utterly absurd to think that they would know for certain what they want to do with the rest of their lives.

"But I knew what I wanted to do when I was your age!" you may exclaim, and yes, while it's true that you may have, many people do not have any idea. Not all of us are the Rachel Berry's of this world, having a firm goal in mind that we determinedly pursue. If you knew what you wanted to do with the rest of your life when you were 18, then I applaud you, dear reader; congratulations! Unfortunately, I cannot say the same. I know I talk about 18 year olds as if I am already one, and your astute mind will remember that I am still 17, but I'll remind you, in case you've forgotten, that I will be 18 in September. It is currently July. I do believe that is close enough. Age doesn't mean anything anyway; it is all a matter of maturity, is it not?

Reader, I must confess something to you: I'm terrified. The idea of the future petrifies me. I look forward, past the end of school and there is nothing - a great void. I cannot imagine anything beyond the immediate future. Was it like that for you? Or could you see your whole life ahead of you, meticulously planned out, from your job to your house, even to your kids or pets? In a way, I envy you if you did; you have a confidence in knowing what you want.

I do know this: I want to be happy, I want to be successful enough to not have to worry about being short of money and I want someone I can go home to and be myself with after a long day of being someone else for the rest of the world. It's not too much to ask, is it, my friend?

_You have brains in your head_

_You have feet in your shoes._

_You can steer yourself_

_In any direction you choose._

I still hear Nana Fabray reading that passage aloud to me as a child. It always struck me as empowering; I love the notion that you are in control of your own destiny, that you can go wheresoever you choose to go, whether it be through streets or alleyways, meadows or forests, or, if you take it slightly less literally, that you can be anything you want to be. The words replay themselves over and over in my mind, the voice of Nana Fabray still lingering on through the passage, more so recently because of the thought I've been giving about college and my future. They're like that piece of advice you are given which you then mull over continuously in your head until you finally come to a decision.

I have a feeling that however things may unfold over the next year, in the lead up to college and a career, that they will proceed exactly as is meant for me. I have faith that they will, just as I know that things will unfold how they were meant to for my classmates, my friends, my family, and even you, dear reader. We can merely hope that what happens is what we wanted to.

I hope Rachel Berry is able to break into musical theatre, and that one day our Glee Club will be able to watch her on a Broadway stage. I hope that Mercedes Jones is offered a recording contract and that one day, she too will be gracing some of the world's biggest entertainment venues. I hope Noah Puckerman, another fellow Glee member and my one time boyfriend, will stay out of jail, and that he can prove to everyone that he is better than the man they all think he is. I hope Santana Lopez finds the confidence to be herself, even if some of the world may disapprove. I hope Mr William Shuester will be able to live his dream, leading our school's Glee Club to a victory at the National level. I hope Finn Hudson will be able to accept that he cannot always be the strong leader he thinks everyone wants him to be and that he can recognise that he cannot be both a leader and selfish simultaneously, and thus grow into the best man he could possibly be, proving that he is not just another Lima Loser. And I hope that you too, reader, shall achieve whatever it is you yearn for the most.

For myself, I hope for happiness. Nothing extravagant. Happiness is all anybody ever needs. Most people have an idea of what shape happiness may take for them, but seeing as I've as yet not got a clue, then I shall simply hope for happiness, whichever form it may come in.

Personally, I see myself in a house in years from now, a home, greeted everyday by the excitement of my dog and the welcome kiss of my husband. In my mind, I own a golden retriever, a big dog, whose tail wags with enthusiasm every time I walk through the front door. My husband I am less clear about. There was a time when I was certain that he would be Finn Hudson, but ever since Rachel Berry entered the picture as serious competition against me in vying for Finn's attention, the image of him as husband wavered and disappeared. I can recognise that he is not the man I believed he was, and he certainly is not the man for me; Rachel Berry can keep him. For a short while, my husband was Noah Puckerman, especially after I realised I was carrying his child, which I know I have not yet discussed, but all things in good time, reader. However, Puck is, as much as he is desperate to prove himself better than the Lima Loser everyone expects him to be, still not right for me. I did love both of these boys, dear reader, but that is just the thing - they are boys. I need a man.

Puck is far more on the way to becoming one than Finn, but I believe that is due in large part to Lauren Zizes influence over him; she made him work for something he wanted for the first time in his life, something which heretofore, he had gotten without effort. The challenge changed him, altered his attitude, his mindset. He learned how to romance and woo, rather than swagger and reek arrogance. To his dismay, it meant that he lost his bad reputation among the students at McKinley, which he'd spent so much time cultivating, but as much as this frustrates him, I do not believe he would do anything to sabotage his relationship with Zizes; he cares far more for her than he cares about any other woman he has had. Thankfully, he is no longer afraid to show his softer side; had he revealed that side more often when we were together, I would never have let him go. But the past is the past and looking him now, he and Zizes are a far better match than he and I could ever be. I'm not afraid to admit that.

Conversely, Finn alternates between moments of incredible maturity and extreme stupidity. One moment he could be the sweetest boy on the planet, holding a picture of you when you were ugly and fat and saying that you were beautiful, the next he could be infuriatingly stupid; for a while he genuinely believed that he'd gotten me pregnant via hot tub. Do not ask me how I fell for that boy, dear reader, I cannot explain to you what thoughts flew through my mind.

No, actually, I can tell you exactly. He was popular, he was rather good looking, and he was interested in me. He was the first boy who ever asked me out on a date. Ecstatic and flattered, I agreed. Soon we were the school's "it" couple, the two people aspired to be; the head cheerleader and the captain of the football team. It wasn't all superficiality though, reader. I liked him because he was sweet, caring and kind hearted. I could be more myself with him than with anybody else, and his reaction to the revelation of my past life as Lucy Caboosey only cemented that ease. Not to mention the fireworks when we kissed; I do not exaggerate, my friend, I tingled when we touched. However, the circumstances under which he and I began dating again were less than perfect; I cheated on my then boyfriend with Finn and he encouraged me to do so. Guilt ate at me throughout the duration of our relationship afterwards, even though we had related the truth to everyone. I clung to Finn more because of the unfavourable reactions we were getting from everybody else.

And then there was Rachel Berry. She was another reason I was so reluctant to give Finn much freedom in our relationship. I knew Rachel, I knew she was in love with Finn. I knew she and he kissed even while he and I were dating, I know that she wanted him, I knew that like her Broadway dream, she would stop at nothing in her pursuit of him. And I lacked trust in my boyfriend. I knew of their history, I knew that he was truly torn between she and I, though he tried to hide it. I knew that with too much freedom, he could find himself in her embrace, and I would be left cold on the sidelines, alone, as if I never mattered - the way I was with my family. So yes, I admit, I liked Finn somewhat because I knew I could easily manipulate him, intimidate him and do what I had to do to keep him with me. It wasn't the only reason, and it certainly wasn't the driving reason, but was one in a myriad of reasons. But despite my best efforts, Finn left me and ran straight into Rachel's arms. I was left exactly where I did not want to be.

A part of myself hates Rachel for that, for taking Finn away from me twice. Another part admires her relentlessness. And all of me resents her for having what I desperately wanted; unconditional love from a boy and a dream for bigger things. Yes, I have mixed feelings for Rachel Berry; in the time that I spend not wanting to strangle the life out of her, I instead spend admiring her. She shall never know, of course; a girl like Rachel would follow you around like a love sick puppy should you give any indication that you actually cared about her; I watched that unfold with Finn. But I do care. I would kill for Rachel before I would kill for Finn, only because I can recognise that she is the only one who is definitely going to get out of Lima and live grandiose dreams; should we not help those who have a chance? Leaving is something every child who grew up in Lima longs for, but most never achieve.

Rachel believes I hate her. Several times we have had confrontations of an argumentative nature. One time I slapped her. I can't say that I don't know where she's coming from in her belief. The truth is, my emotions toward her are complicated, as I've already explained. I have never explicitly stated that I hate her, but nor have I led her to believe otherwise. I let her think that because I understand how difficult it is going to be when the time arrives and she must leave to pursue her dreams. Already I have seen her falter, trying to choose between love and career and I think that the closer the time creeps upon her to leave, the harder it is going to become, especially if she has knowledge that more people than just the ones she thought cared about her. I've always thought that if I pretended that I didn't care, then I would not impede her leaving. I doubt I'd be influence enough to change her mind about the matter, in any case.

There's just so much to say about Rachel Berry. But mostly, I wish I could explain to her how I think. Understanding is key. Also, I'd like to warn her that she's making a mistake with Finn. But I hardly think she will listen to me, let alone understand me. Still, I cannot help wishing that there was a way. Perhaps I'll find a way to do it before graduation. That gives me an entire year. Do you believe I can do it in a year, dear reader? I wonder if you have the faith in me that I lack in myself.

**Author's note: so, a very light implication of Faberry and quite a bit on where Quinn thinks she'll be in the future. If anyone has any suggestions, questions, comments or criticisms, by all means, go ahead and let me know. Personally, I think I'm doing a decent job of exploring the mystery that is Quinn Fabray, but if anyone has anything to say, then I'm all ears.**

**Also, the Taylor Swift reference is from her song Breathe. Just in case you were wondering.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: alrighty, another chapter. This gets done in between all my uni work, so bear with me if updates are a little sparse. Basically, I hope you're all enjoying it, even if there's not much of a plot going on. **

In my head, you are a wonderful person, open hearted, kind, compassionate. In my head, you are many things; an artist, a writer, a businessman, or woman, a teacher, a retail worker, an aged carer, a parent, a sibling, a friend. You are important to someone and someone is important to you.

You have a history, interwoven with the lives of everyone you have ever known. You have a future, whether it is one you have planned out before you, or not. You have a place in the world, carved out by your own hand, cut precisely so that you fit in it perfectly; you and nobody else.

I wonder about you though. I hope you are everything I have hoped that you would be and that I have not written all of this story out merely so that you may look at it and laugh with malice. There are many things at which you may laugh, and I shall continue to provide you with more.

For example, I have another childhood story. My family and I went to a carnival when I was 9 years old. It was one of the most exciting things of my life; there were lights, there were rides, there was noise, and people and a million different directions to run in. There was the smell of food, wafting over the head of the crowd, filling your nostrils and making your stomach grumble and your mouth water. Lights and the moon glinted off the surface of water, for the carnival was being held next to a river, and in all, the night, clear and warm, was perfect and indeed, beautiful.

Neither Frannie nor I held the hands of my parents; we felt too old for such foolishness, even though both mother and father begged us to take their hands. We were big girls; I was 9 and Frannie was 11, and both of us felt childish holding our parents' hands. Besides, there were younger kids in hordes, running free without being held to the side of their parents. It may have been our first time at a carnival, but excitement overrode any fear we might have had. The only time we touched our parents was to tug them in a particular direction.

And tug them in many a direction we did. We took them on the giant slide, onto the dodge 'em cars, and coerced them into buying us our first corndogs, which, incidentally, made both Frannie and I sick later in the night. There were so many things to see, booths which you had to shoot ducks, or knock over cans, or push a ball into a grinning clown's mouth, all to win a range of prizes. We did them all that night. We didn't walk away with much, but that didn't matter to us; the fun was in the game, not the prize.

But then we arrived at a final booth, right at the end of the corridor of stalls and stands, in the darkest corner of the carnival. There, the lights did not reach and most of the booth was sheathed in shadow; it radiated eeriness. "Madame Scarlet's Fortunes: come and get your cards read," said the small sign which hung haphazardly at the front of the stall. The gothic script was hardly the most attractive thing, but neither Frannie nor I were even half worried about that, we were far too entranced by the woman sitting within the small tent. She had her legs crossed and her eyes were closed, a deck of tarot cards and a crystal ball in front of her.

"Come in, come in ladies. Come sit with me. I shall tell you anything you wish to know about your future," the woman said in a soft voice, her eyes still closed. Our parents were at the next stall over, talking to the man behind the low counter, so Frannie and I, perplexed and curious about this woman so strangely sitting on the floor, went in and sat down. The woman opened her eyes and smiled, teeth so white in the darkness, and the creases around her eyes deeper than any I have seen since.

"I am Madame Scarlet," she said, reaching out and taking one of mine and one of Frannie's hands in each of hers. Gently, she tugged and we took this as a sign to be seated. So we sat opposite her on a small rug and waited. We all breathed in the smoking incense, but no one spoke a word; it was so quiet, in fact, that we could hear daddy's voice next door, talking to the man about parrots. Daddy always did like birds. I could hear Frannie breathing, quick inhalations and shaky exhalations. I nudged her with my elbow. I still remember everything so clearly from that night; it's strange how some memories stay so clear, even after years have passed.

"So," Madame Scarlet began, breaking the silence, "you wish to have me tell you your futures?"

Unsure what to say, Frannie and I nodded, glancing at the other to make sure that we were going to be doing this together. I was terrified of being without our parents, but Frannie's presence calmed me, even if she was slightly panicked.

"Hmm," she said, squinting and waving her hands, which by now had let go of ours, in front of her, over the form of Frannie, "dark yellow, orange, pale pink. You, my dear, are loving and sensitive, outgoing, but prone to stress. You try to learn everything at once, as though you are afraid of tomorrow. That is what your aura tells me."

My sister and I exchanged looks. Frannie was certainly stressed frequently, and outgoing definitely described her personality. I raised my eyebrow. That was interesting. I remember being amazed at her description of Frannie, but also terrified of what she may say about me, for her eyes were now trained on my small form, squinted so much they looked almost shut. A frown furrowed the woman's brow.

"Fascinating," she said. "An aura of lavender, lots of dark blue, a hint of emerald, bright yellow, and two reds. Fascinating indeed. A daydreamer with a loving, passionate nature who will do anything to survive. But who is also terrified of the future. You make an interesting combination, my dear. Also, your aura overflows with colour. You are a complicated little being, more so than most. How old might you be?"

"I'm 9," I said, not sure exactly what she meant by all that she was saying. I understood some of it, but most flew over my head. However, the words stayed with me, and I can say that I understand them now. I can also say that she was right, in all aspects. I'm sure that you would agree with Madame Scarlet, from what you have learned of me so far.

The woman in question had now begun to play with her tarot cards. She shuffled them, paused, then shuffled them again, the cards flitting in and out of the deck in her old hands. She hummed something to herself, a mysterious melody which sent shivers down my spine; I felt as though I was listening to a tune from ages long forgotten, when people worshipped winds and forests, mountains and lakes, fire and wildlife. As the song seemed to reach a crescendo, she stopped, putting the tarot cards in a newly shuffled pile directly before her.

The silence stretched between the three of us, seated cross legged in that tiny tent reeking of incense. I could hear Frannie's watch ticking away the time, seconds of our lives, vanishing, never able to be retrieved. And then Madame Scarlet took up the card at the top of the deck, turning it over and putting it to her left.

"The Moon. A cyclical change from the wild to the domesticated and back again. The feminine. Powerful dreams. Those are the important elements of your past, my dear," she said, looking at me as though she was trying to discover who I was. I had no idea what that meant at the time; to me, she was talking nonsense - intriguing and mystical nonsense, but nonsense nonetheless. But thinking back, it made a lot of sense. The feminine referred to my grandmother who was a powerful influence on my young life, the dreams referred to the ones I had after she died, ones I do not quite recall in detail, but I shall never forget the feelings of terror and loneliness of. The cyclical element is more mysterious to me. I believe it has something to do with mood swings I used to have, and in truth, have not entirely grown out of. Those things determined who I became as I grew older.

"Page of Pentacles," that was the second card and the one pertaining to my present. "Appearance of prosperity, one who delights in material things, nature and the body. Perseverance. Trust. A studious nature. Achievement," that is what Madame Scarlet next said, soft voice drifting through the tent. Another truth. When I was 9 years old, I was hardworking, especially in school, and my results were a reflection of that study. I was the top student of the class when I was 9, an achievement I shall forever be proud of. Also, being a child, I was still very hands on, and I loved being outdoors getting dirty in the mud or in the park. Often I would come home with grass stains on my clothes, much to the consternation of my mother who had to clean them.

"The final card. The future," Madame Scarlet said, turning over the third card and placing it on the far right of her body - our left. Frannie and I craned our necks to see it; if any card was going to intrigue us, it was this one, the one fortelling my future. "Ace of Wands. A new venture. An opportunity which should be greeted with enthusiasm. A burst of creativity. Take advantage of these things when they appear to you, my dear. They will lead you on a great path."

In all honesty, reader, I was disappointed by these last words. I wanted more certainty; yes, even then I craved it. Her words were simply too vague to make me happy. I understood that what she was saying was good, that I would have a good future, but only if I heeded the signs and took advantage of them. I couldn't understand how I could take advantage of them if I hadn't the slightest clue of what they were. Since then, I've adopted the mantra "whatever will be, will be," and it has thus far served me well. I trust in God to lead me on the right path.

Frannie and I had looked at each other that night in the tent, as though we were sharing important secrets with one another. I could see in her eyes that she was desperate to have her cards read too. Madame Scarlet had not yet picked up the cards off the floor to begin her second reading, and instead was regarding us from the other side of the rug as the two of us looked at her, shivered and then looked again at each other. Unfortunately, Frannie was not to get her cards read. Our parents, frantic that they'd lost sight of us for a moment found us with Madame Scarlet and bursting in, dragged us from the tent, yelling, the adrenaline not yet faded from their blood. They kept harping on about the "demonic arts" and how we should have known better than to have gone into a booth like that, that people like that woman, Madame Scarlet, were sinning against God. Frannie and I had both just rolled our eyes. Parents could be such killjoys.

That night stayed with me. I believed the words for a long time afterwards, but have since disregarded them. I've grown cynical in such matters; many a time predictions are so vaguely worded that they could apply to anyone, and any situation. I believe this is the case the majority of the time. Perhaps Madame Scarlet was genuinely able to read my cards and able to see my aura, but I was 9 years old - I cannot be sure. Should I meet her now, I perhaps would have a better idea, but I highly doubt that she and I shall ever cross paths again. However, the memory still lingers and here I have recorded it, so that it may live on, even when my mind has deteriorated.

I do not know what your stance is on things like this, dear friend, but I am on the fence. I cannot say that I do believe because it has never been proven to work for me, but neither an I say that I disbelieve, for the same reason. As I said, I was 9 years old, hardly old enough to make fair judgements on such things. At the time I would have advocated that yes Madame Scarlet was right and that everything she said is correct, but that would have been the naivety of a child speaking; we always believe the best in people when we are young, don't we?

Do I believe that clairvoyants sin against God? No, in truth, I do not. Perhaps they try to discover things that are better left unknown, and in fact, how can anyone truly tell the future? So many pathways are available, who is to say that you are going to take a particular one? But no, I do not believe it is a sin against Christianity. My parents staunchly believe that they do, but as we have already established, I do not share many of my parents' views. Frannie on the other hand, stands behind our parents wholeheartedly. I remember the one time I tried to discuss the night with her, a few days afterwards, she refused to talk about it. I pushed her to and she snapped at me, changing from bored and disinterested to furious in a matter of seconds.

"You heard mom and dad, they're dark arts. Believing Madame Scarlet will send you straight to hell, you know that. Geez, Quinn, why are we even talking about this?"

That was the long and short of our conversation. I wasn't allowed a chance to settle my mind. But as goes the mind of a child, it was soon forgotten, pushed aside by other days and worries and dreams. Well, I lie when I say forgotten, it was more like it was pushed aside for the moment. It rises to memory every so often, but I do not dwell on it. I suppose I have brought it up this time because I've reached a point in my life where the future looms and decisions must be made. Remembering something which I genuinely thought was predicting my future only seems natural. It hasn't helped inform my decision, or clarify the murky water into which I will be diving after this coming year, but it reminds me that whatever may happen, life will carry on.

That seems to be a mantra of many people, most notably, the poet Robert Frost, whose most famous quote is:

_In three words I can sum up everything  
>I've learned about life: it goes on. <em>

Whatever may happen, no matter how terrible it may be, the sun does not stop shining, the world does not stop turning and the ocean does not stop caressing the shore. That is an appropriate attitude to take with life; one must realise that the world doesn't revolve around you and that sometimes the hardest, bravest and most courageous thing you could possibly do is pick yourself up off the floor and persevere. No body else can do that for you. That's something I have learnt in my 17 years on Earth.

When everybody, including your own family turns against you, you must do what you can to survive. Only the strong will get off their knees and hold their head high, despite everything that people might think and say about you. I had to keep going for the sake of myself. It was during that time that I also discovered who were the people who truly cared about me. Surprisingly, they weren't the ones I thought they were going to be; those Cheerios who so often claimed that they "had my back" turned and scattered at the first sign of me losing my status as head Cheerio. It was the Glee kids who came through for me when I needed them the most. Those same people that I made fun of, ridiculed and tortured were the same ones who offered me support and somewhere to live. I can't begin to explain to you how much that hurt, knowing that I was so cruel to them, but they were more than willing to forgive me when I was in trouble.

What can I say, dear reader? Your lowest moments are the ones in which you find out who loves you. I wouldn't be here without those friends.

**A/N: I don't actually know anything about tarot cards or auras, so if I'm totally wrong with what I've said, please forgive me. **


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Delving into Quinn's pregnancy. Enjoy!**

There is a topic which I have been avoiding, because it pains me to speak of it. I am deeply ashamed of that time, of the actions which lead up to it, and the pain which came afterwards still affects me, especially in my most vulnerable moments. I believe this affected me more than anyone has ever acknowledged, mostly because I have not acknowledged it either; no one can know you're hurting if you never tell anybody.

If I could, I would have hidden it from everybody, but as you know, pregnancy is not something that you can hide. It makes itself blindingly obvious, bloating the body you worked so hard to maintain, playing with your hormones, instigating mood swings. Even if I hadn't said a word, they would have realised it eventually, what with my running out of Glee every fifteen minutes to deal with the bile rising up my oesophagus, or my thickening figure, or my shorter than usual temper.

I was 16. Too young, some would say, but in reality, two hundred years ago, you would be expected to bear children at 16. In our society, a pregnant 16 year old is perceived as a slut and is condemned, looked down upon and not treated the same way they were before they fell pregnant. You would assume that a pregnant teenager would gather support rather than contempt, but as you may know, this is not true.

So, how did it happen? Well, Noah Puckerman happened. I can't say it was big and romantic and that he swept me off my feet. In fact, it was the furthest thing from romantic. It was after school at my house, on top of my bed; we didn't even get in between the sheets. I was still in my Cheerios uniform. And I was drunk. It is ridiculous, I know, to plead that I fell pregnant because I was intoxicated. Honestly, I wasn't drunk enough to not know what I was doing, I knew exactly what was happening, I knew I shouldn't be doing it, but at that moment, I was drunk enough that the alcohol had wiped away all of my inhibitions and I just didn't want to stop. I have never before admitted that, but I know I can here. I promised honesty, after all.

Puck was, and to some extent still is, the bad boy of the school. Nipple piercing wearing, guitar playing and mohawk haired, he used to rule the school as the worst of the bad. What can I say? I had a soft spot for his bad boy attitude, and had always admired his mohawk. He was the guy you were attracted to because you knew you shouldn't be, because he was the boy your parents always told you to avoid, because he was the one who would use you then leave you behind. In many ways, he and I were alike, only, because I was a girl, a bitchy attitude was much more acceptable.

Puck was the epitome of jock, much more so than Finn, who, though he was the captain of the football team, lacked the ability to bring the boys together; if anything, that was Puck. He was far more respected than his captain. I always found men who took charge to be sexy. You could say that's one of my kinks.

So I cheated on my boyfriend. I say that as though it was nothing, but actually, that's the thing I'm most ashamed of. I was always taught to be faithful, that adultery was one of the worst sins to commit, but there I was, Puck was in front of me, muscled arms crossed across his chest, a smirk playing across his features, suggesting that he and I hook up. I opened and closed my mouth a few times before I found something to say.

"Yes."

Unfortunately, that yes led to the worst time of my life. I knew, even as Puck and I lay on my bed that I shouldn't be doing that, and that if I was, that it should be Finn I was with, not this boy with a mohawk. But Puck was there, and he was giving me wine coolers and I was trying to impress him by drinking and proving I could hold my liquor, so the more he gave, the more I drank. He kissed me and all I wanted was more.

He rolled us over so that I was lying on top of him. I liked that; I felt in control and the feeling made me more aroused than I already was. I kept thinking 'this is the time I should stop to pray,' the way I always did with Finn when I wanted to go further but knew I shouldn't, but this time the alcohol was in my blood, it was burning my veins and my brain pushed that thought of prayer aside. Puck rolled me over again so that this time he was on top and things started to get more serious; hands wandered, tongues too and clothes became far too restraining. But I still had some sense.

"Shouldn't we…you know?"

"Babe, trust me," Puck had replied and I thought, 'well, he's the one who's done this before. I'm the inexperienced one,' and went along with it. The thought that he should be wearing a condom kept niggling at my mind, and I almost stopped a few times - I knew I should stop - but I didn't want to. Clearly, I didn't have_ enough_ sense.I got caught in the moment, letting my hormones, urges and the wine coolers drive me into doing what I'd wanted to do for so long, but hadn't been inclined enough to go against my morals to actually follow through with. Besides, Finn just didn't have the same appeal as Puck; knowing he had a problem with premature ejaculation didn't really help his standing.

So that was that. I lost my virginity to Noah Puckerman. Later, when Finn and I were back together and the trauma of pregnancy and lies was behind us, I told him that he should have been my first, not Puck, but honestly, I've never regretted that Puck was my first; I regret that I cheated on Finn to have sex with him and that it resulted in my falling pregnant, but I do not actually regret that he was the first boy I had sex with. I lied to Finn because I knew that was one of his insecurities about himself, and although I may have cheated on him, I still loved him, more than I ever loved Puck.

Oh, and if you're wondering, though I can't say why you would be, I did sleep with Finn later, and out of the two of them, Puck most certainly ranks as the better lover.

A few weeks and four pregnancy tests later, I had the news that I was indeed carrying his child. I stopped breathing for a moment when I saw the first test showing positive, denial made me disbelieve the second and third, but by the fourth test I knew without a doubt that I was pregnant.

Terror doesn't quite describe the feeling at the time. I felt fear so intense that I went numb; I couldn't feel shock, or regret, or unhappiness. I couldn't think about what I had to do, what I could do. A part of me wanted to curl into a ball and pretend that it did not happen. But I was terrified. 16, reader, I was 16 years old. I hadn't even thought about the possibility of a child in my future, let alone a child while I was still a teenager.

Millions of thoughts raced through my mind; telling my mother, telling Puck, not telling anyone, having an abortion. But other thoughts too: keeping the baby, or giving it up for adoption. I weighed my options. I took a long time in considering what I was doing, what was happening and tried to think of what was going to be best for me. I knew that if I decided to have the baby, then I would be kicked out of the Cheerios. I knew that I would lose many of my friends, that I would become an outcast in our school's warped hierarchy. I knew it would break the hearts of my parents, who were so proud that I was the head of the Celibacy club, and would be Chastity Queen at the Chastity Ball. I feared their reaction the most; I had no idea at all of what they might do to me. I knew it was going to make them angry, that it would probably result in them not speaking to me for months, but I was sure that with the birth of my child, that they would come around and forgive me.

It was this line of thought which made me realise something; I'd already unconsciously decided what I was going to do. If I was certain that my parents would forgive me upon the birth of their first grandchild, it meant only one thing: that I had decided, however unconsciously, that I was going to keep my baby. That realisation sent waves of cool relief washing over my anxiety ridden body; that was the first major decision out of the way.

There's something about having a tiny life within you, reader, that forces you to reconsider your view on life. Suddenly everything else seemed less important; fighting for popularity became a sign of immaturity, cheerleading became just a past time, school was more important because it helped you have a chance at raising your child properly and your future is something you come to think of quite frequently.

But, being honest, reader, in those hours after discovering that I was with child, I got in my car, pressed the accelerator as hard as I could and shot towards the closest abortion centre. I sat in the parking lot for two hours, staring at the name of the place, trying to muster the courage to step out of my car and walk in. At one point I did pull myself from the vehicle, but I could not take more than five steps towards the entrance of the centre, and instead, sat against the hood of my car, arms wrapped around myself to stop the shaking which had overcome my body. It was then, my friend, that I realised that abortion wasn't a realistic option for me. I couldn't do it. It wasn't out of some religious conviction, but out of guilt; I could not bear the thought that I would be responsible for taking away someone's opportunity at life, especially when that life was growing within me.

"I can't do this," I admitted out loud to myself, and that was that. I got in my car and went home, never once glancing back in the rearview mirror.

The next thing which I decided was that I would not admit that Puck was the father. Although he was more intelligent than Finn, he was also far more irresponsible, what with his dalliances with older women and inability to stay out of trouble; I needed someone who was going to be able to take care of my child, even if I wasn't fully committed on keeping it and raising it myself. Another motivation behind this was that I didn't want everyone to know that I had cheated on Finn. I didn't want to be _that_ girl, the one who cheats on their boyfriend, the one who falls pregnant to a man other than the one she is dating; I didn't want to be known as a slut. Plus, I knew Finn would never forgive me if he knew that I betrayed him.

I was fortunate enough that Finn believed that it was his baby, even though he and I had never had sex. When he tried to argue the point, I decided to attack his insecurities, mentioning his problem with premature ejaculation and claiming that he had impregnated me when the two of us were in the hot tub, and that hot water made sperm swim faster. In a testament to his own stupidity, he believed the lie. It wasn't my proudest moment, dear reader, but it was necessary. Finn, though coming from a single parent family, was much more capable of looking after a child than Puck, who I knew would not give our child enough of the love that they deserved from their father.

That was the beginning of the web of lies. I also lied to my parents, my friends, my teachers, as well as my boyfriend. They all found out the truth soon enough, before my pregnancy was even showing, in fact. In the ordeal I lost a boyfriend, I lost my parents, but I also found my friends, those who would support me no matter what mistakes I made. Mercedes Jones was my pillar of support during those times. My parents threw me out of the house upon discovering that I was pregnant - their coping mechanism, I suppose, for they had the tendency to pretend that problems within our family did not exist, even though they were overabundant. I moved in with Finn, whose mother I will forever be grateful to for taking me in without a second's hesitation, but when they found out I had lied about my baby's paternity, neither of them could look me in the eye but still asked me to leave their house. Puck was the next to take me in, but his unreliability, the disappointment of his mother, the shouting of his father and the fighting of his siblings had me jumping at the chance Mercedes offered me of moving into her house.

I was glad when everything was revealed, even though it meant jumping from house to house, and losing family and friends, because it meant that I had nothing to hide anymore. There is nothing more stressful than hiding something so big and so important from everyone that you love. All at once you want to break down in front of them and confess everything, letting the tears convey your apology, while at the same time you run home to take away your doctor's bill, desperately hoping that nobody noticed anything unusual. I hope you've never had to experience this, dear reader, for it is most unpleasant.

The entire ordeal forced me to realise that I wasn't ready to take care of a child, that it was well beyond my capabilities as a 16 year old high school student, and when Mr Shuester's wife Terri approached me one day when I escaped to my car, I accepted her proposal of adoption. It seems she was lying to her husband about her pregnancy and in fact needed a baby to make sure that the lie went undetected; and there I was, the solution to her problem just as she was the solution to mine. I don't know how she thought she would hide the fact that she didn't go into labour, and that I did and came out without a baby, but that was a problem for later.

In a conversation which lasted all of three minutes, the pouring rain drumming overhead on the roof of my car, the agreement was made and some of the stress relieved. This happened before my house jumping, but the constant moves only reinforced my decision; I had my doubts about Terri Shuester and her methods and lies, and what that would mean to a child growing up, but I was more than confident in Mr Shuester's abilities to be a good father. There was a brief interval where I considered going back on my word, thinking that Puck might in fact be a good father, and that we could keep and raise the baby as our own, but his unreliability once again shone through and I fell back to my original decision.

That pregnancy was one of the most difficult things I ever had to go through, and it made me realise how much I could handle without being completely broken. Things didn't turn out the way they were supposed to; Mr Shuester found out that Terri was lying to him, I was left with a baby on the way and no where for it to go; I was sure that the Jones family weren't going to be delighted with my being in the house with a child, even though they accepted the fact when I broke the news to them about the Shuesters. I was terrified about the upcoming labour; I knew it was going to be painful, I knew my mother wasn't going to be there, and I knew that I was going to have a baby that I couldn't raise. But I didn't have a solution and was in way over my head, so I just left things be, hoping that somehow, everything would be solved. The impending birth grew bigger on the horizon and the feeling of dread also grew the more time went on.

Contractions started right after our Regionals competition for Glee. We all rushed to the hospital after the performance, my friends wheeling me along in a wheelchair at breakneck pace, screaming for help. They were all there, with the exception of Rachel, who opted to stay behind, lest we forfeit the competition by having no one present. In the birthing room I chose to have Mercedes present, a sign of gratitude for everything she had done for me over the previous months, as well as Puck, who I'm sure I wouldn't have been able to keep out, should I have tried. And an added bonus, my mother, who was there after Regionals with an apology and a hope of reconciliation, which I thankfully accepted.

"Quinnie, I want you to come home with me," was all it really took to have her back; I'd missed her too much to fight anymore and knowing that she'd kicked dad out of the house made the decision easier. He was the one who threw me out of the house to begin with.

I gave birth to a gorgeous baby girl later that night, and as I held her in my arms, crying from the love which seemed to overflow from some place within me that I didn't have any idea existed, I knew that I had to do what I had to do to be sure that she would have a good life. And I knew that involved not being able to raise her myself. So she was put up for adoption.

Standing behind a glass wall, watching her sleep with Puck beside me was one of the saddest moments of my life. I knew then that this one of the few precious moments I would have to see her and I was trying to savour it. Puck's sigh when I said I didn't want to keep her told me again that he was against my decision to adopt her out, but I don't think he understood the responsibility of raising a child, even if he thought he did.

"She have a name?" Shelby Corcoran said, after refusing to answer my question as to why she was there. Shelby is Rachel's mother and also, the coach of our rival glee club, Vocal Adrenalin. She'd just appeared next to us, asking which one was our baby, with no explanation, no comments about Regionals, no anything, just a question: "Which one is yours?"

"No," I said, shaking my head a little and not taking my eyes of her.

"Beth," Puck replied, overriding my answer. I have to say, I agree with his choice. It was a beautiful name for a beautiful girl, inspired by music, which inspired us both. It seemed fitting, not to mention it being a much better idea than one of Finn's early ideas of "Drizzle".

"Pretty. I like that name," Shelby had commented, smiled and asked what we were going to do with her.

Over the next few days papers were signed and confirmed and Beth went home to begin her life with Shelby Corcoran. I think Rachel was a little disappointed in us for letting Shelby have Beth, but if truth be told, a part of me understood Shelby's actions of leaving Rachel without any contact; as a mother, I understood how hard it was for her to do that, so I didn't begrudge her for wanting to have a chance with a daughter - it's something I completely relate to, and probably will do myself in the future, although it most likely will be with a daughter that I bore, not one that I adopted. I knew Shelby would treat Beth the way she deserved to be treated; with the love of a mother who had too much love to give and no one to give it to. Rachel might not understand, but Rachel has not ever been a mother; perhaps one day, when she too experiences the ups and downs of pregnancy and realises the full responsibility of being a parent, she too will come to accept the things which transpired between her and her own mother as necessary.

I have seen neither Shelby nor Beth since, but sometimes I will receive a letter from the former, informing me of the latter's progress. I appreciate it, even if it reminds me of the relationship I am not having with my daughter. I pretend that I don't remember the pregnancy or the fact that I gave birth to a daughter, but it never truly leaves my mind, dear reader. On her first birthday, I lit a candle for Beth and sang her happy birthday, hoping that wherever she was, she would know that I didn't give her up out of spite or hate, but out of love, so that she may have the best life possible. Puck tried to force me into conversation about Beth the next day at school, but I gave him the cold shoulder; I couldn't bear to talk about it there where everyone was watching and there was the chance that I might break down in tears. Sometimes I think that the pregnancy should have brought us closer and that we should have bonded more over the loss of our daughter, but in truth, it didn't because I didn't let it. I didn't want to be able to have those conversations about Beth because of how much it hurt. Instead, I tried to force things back to the way they were before.

But there you go, reader, that is the story of my pregnancy. You now know of my daughter, and you know that I still love her. I wish I could tell her that myself, but as life goes, I cannot. At this very moment, I do not even know where she is; Shelby is quite the traveller. But as long as she is loved and is taught to love and be kind and compassionate, then I have nothing more to ask. Perhaps one day she and I will meet and I will be granted the chance to explain, but for now, I send her prayers and hope that she receives them.

**A/N: so, there we go, Quinn on her pregnancy. This was quite hard to write, seeing as I've never been pregnant, and have never had to give up a child. What did you think?  
>I know not everything is explained, there was really too much to cover, and the most unexplained was the RachelShelby scenario, which if you watch the show, you'll get anyway, but I'll probably do a chapter explaining things soon.**


	8. Chapter 8

Rachel Berry. Where do even begin to describe Rachel Berry? Well, you already know some of what has transpired over the years between Ms Berry and I, but you know nothing in detail, I believe, and there has been quite a lot which has happened.

Rachel Berry was the outsider of the school, the girl with gay fathers, the strange girl who had a passion for musical theatre that no one except Kurt Hummel understood, although even that did not raise her appeal to be a friend in his eyes. She flaunted her talent whenever she could and by the time we reached sophomore year, there was not a single person in the entire student body of McKinley who had not heard her sing. If there was talent show, hers was the name at the top of the list, if there was a play, her name was on the list, if there was any chance at singing at all, even if that singing was carolling, that's right reader, her name was on the list, a gold star sticker next to it.

Gold stars are her signature; they seem to motivate her somehow. I think she believes that by putting a star next to her name that she will someday become one, as though it's a constant reminder both to herself and to others where she would like to be one day. I admire her for this, for her big dreams and her certainty. She pursues her career with a single minded determination, and the only time I have ever seen her falter in that pursuit is over a boy. Over Finn Hudson, to be more precise.

Oh, yes, I know what you're thinking: "but wasn't he _your_ boyfriend?" But we've been over this have we not? Rachel liked Finn for most of the duration of our early high school years, and as we head into Senior year, it seems that her feelings for him will have lasted the entire four year span. I knew it, I always knew it when another girl was staring at my boyfriend, but I never imagined that anything would ever come of those stares, at least, until Finn joined Glee and all of a sudden, he and Rachel were spending copious amounts of time together, organising the team and motivating them to do better. And I felt Finn slipping away. I knew he was falling for Rachel, but I knew at the same time that he was deeply attached to me. Torn between two girls must have been unpleasant for him, and it seems he never really made up his mind either, because for two years he bounced between the two of us. Sometimes I wonder whether Rachel and I are the victims of Finn, rather than Finn being the victim of us.

The history of our love triangle goes a little as follows: Finn was dating me, but kissed Rachel one day in the auditorium. Finn realised he was wrong and didn't do it again, but Rachel kept up her pursuit of him. Sometimes I think she is incapable of simply letting things go and must always pursue the things she wants until she dies of exhaustion, but anyhow, I digress. Finn found out that I lied to him, and broke up with me. Soon afterwards, he and Rachel were dating, or at least that's what Rachel thought until Finn told her otherwise. However, Regionals occurs and Finn tells Rachel that he loves her, right before they go onstage. So goes Sophomore year. Junior year was as follows: Finn and Rachel are going strong, until lies are exposed, revenge is sought and a break up occurs. Rachel tries to get Finn back, apologising for her mistake, but Finn decides that he loves me. So, with Finn and I back together, we expect Rachel to back off - no such luck. But the more Rachel's pursuit of him goes on, the more Finn slips away again and eventually breaks it off with me, yet again, to be with her. She, in a rather unexpected move, rejects his advances in New York, and it isn't until we're back at school that their relationship begins all over again.

I can't help but think that the three of us are stuck in some vicious cycle, forever doomed to happen again and again and again. Repetitiveness is dull and for this reason, well, it is one of the reasons, I don't believe that Finn and I will date again. Even should he dump Rachel, I don't think I shall take him back; it was insensitive of him to call an end to our relationship at a funeral, after all. But the real reason is this: as much as he and I loved one another, we weren't suited. I was controlling and he was stupid and fumbling and let me take control all the time; there was no balance. It's true, we matured, and my controlling streak became a possessive streak which was no more healthy, and Finn started to stand up for himself a little more, it was maturity which, although good for ourselves, was no good for our relationship. I do believe that he and Rachel balance each other out a little more; for every grand dream Rachel has, Finn is there to ground her and make her remember where she is. She listens to him and he listens to her and cares about how she's feeling and they're both willing to make sacrifices for the other. Whether their relationship lasts beyond high school, I don't know; I'm in no position to make judgements on that, and really, it is not my place to say, anyhow. All I can say is that Rachel can have him.

It's strange that I say that now, when a little while ago, I would have said that Rachel and Jesse St James, one time rival Glee clubber from another team, Vocal Adrenalin, were perfect for each other, what with their ambition and single minded purpose towards fame. They once dated and it ended with Jesse breaking an egg upon her head. He did, however, take her to Prom; I don't think he truly regretted what he did to her, but I don't think his heart would have been in it at the time either - he did what he had to do to stay part of his team, that's something I understand. Perhaps in the end their diva ways are too much for each other; should anything more long term come out of their relationship, I'm sure it would end in a screaming match - or a sing off. Two competitive natures in the same relationship most likely would not have gone over too well, but then again, I could not say for sure; they possibly could have made it work.

I've not the slightest idea what is going to happen with Rachel and Finn in a year's time when Rachel decides that she is going to New York for college and Finn probably wants to stay in Ohio to be close to his mom, who, while married now to Mr Hummel, he has gotten used to fending for. Perhaps Rachel can convince Finn to move to New York with her, perhaps with the help of Kurt. Maybe they'll try a long distance relationship, but I doubt that would work for either of them; Finn will be too distrusting and Rachel is too high maintenance to be in a relationship with a boy who is not close at hand. Maybe they won't be in a relationship then, or maybe, and this is the most unlikely option of them all, maybe Rachel will stay in Ohio and attend college here. Whatever the case, it will not concern me at all.

For myself, while a lot of what happened between Finn and Rachel was my business, I've happily concluded that it is not anymore. I can let the two of them have their time without me hovering around Finn, trying to seduce him; in essence, I will do everything that Rachel could not bring herself to do. I will send them on their way at graduation with smiles and waves, thankful that I don't have to have the drama of their relationship in my life anymore.

That isn't to say that I dislike Rachel Berry, reader. She and I have built a strange relationship, consisting more of mutual respect than actual friendship. I am the only one in the school who tells Rachel how it is, without mollycoddling the girl and she always runs after me when I am hurt, much to my astonishment. There's a sense of trust between us with everything except Finn; when we aren't fighting over him, we can be quite friendly and supportive of each other.

For example, when Rachel went through the phase of wanting a nose job, it was I who sat in the doctor's surgery with her. Admittedly, she wanted my nose, which is the reason for my being there, and I sat there the majority of the time flicking through the magazines, but there was something about that day which drew us closer together in a way which no one else in Glee would understand. It wasn't the nose job itself which made us closer, it was the fact that Rachel wanted to be someone else, and she was willing to change her face to do so, which, I, having already done, completely understood. She convinced me to sing about the experience with her.

I Feel Pretty/Unpretty was sung in front of the entire Glee club, much to their shock; they didn't know Rachel and I could get along long enough to work on a song together, nor did they think that our voices would compliment the other's so well. I could see the shocked looks upon their faces when Rachel and I sat there on our stools, our pianist Brad playing along behind us and our voices filling the room. I spotted Santana's incredulous expression, Finn's confused one, Mr Shue's proud one and everyone else's appreciative expressions. I had some reserves about singing with Rachel, to be sure, but she convinced me.

"Please Quinn, you're the only one who understands enough to sing this song with me. I got the band to mash the two songs together and they sound amazing, but I can't sing it on my own. It _needs_ your voice," she'd said.

"I can't believe it; Rachel Berry is admitting that she needs help singing a song."

"Well, it is a duet, Quinn. Besides, I think it will be a good chance for us to set aside our animosity, otherwise we won't have a chance at Nationals. What better way to bond than over song?"

"Why should I do this with you, Rachel? After all you've put Finn and I through?"

"I can't fight my feelings for him and I can't promise that I'm going to stay out of the way of you and Finn forever, but I'll try. Besides, I know you understand what I'm going through and I think this mash up will be a perfect mode of expression, for both of us. And you can't deny that you care because you did come with me to the surgeon and you are letting me model my new nose on yours. I just want to feel pretty, Quinn; I know you can understand that, even if you are a naturally beautiful girl, so I hope you'll consider my offer of singing this duet," Rachel had said and turned her back after thrusting the sheet music of the mash up into my hands.

Reader, I'm not an idiot, I know that part of Rachel's wanting my nose was because Finn was dating me and because she wanted to be dating him. I agreed to go to the doctor with her because I was certain she wouldn't go through with the procedure; I hoped that she wouldn't. I also knew that even agreeing to singing this song with her wouldn't cause her to stop flirting with my boyfriend, so I disregarded that promise. But she was right, I did know what she felt; mind, reader, that this was before the Lucy Caboosey revelation, so Rachel's words weren't meant to imply anything about that, but that's how I felt them. I knew exactly what it was like to want to be pretty, and I also knew that Rachel didn't need a nose job to be pretty; she already was, but after my own surgery, I was in no position to tell people what they should and shouldn't be doing in regard to their own bodies. So I ran down the hall after the short brunette girl, still holding that sheet music in my hands, pulled her to a stop by the arms and said yes.

It might sound silly, reader, but I felt honoured singing a duet with her. I know that one day I'll be able to look back at that moment, one day when Rachel is gracing the Broadway stages, and I'll be able to say "I sang with her". Working with her was a nightmare; she nitpicked every detail, forcing me to practice until we were both note perfect, before school, between classes, every afternoon. I spent far too much time with her that week, I tell you, my friend, and I was ready to kill the girl after the first few practices, but I do admit that I admire her dedication to her art. I thought it was just Finn that she forced that many practices upon for their duets, but it seems she is like that with everybody. Before long, we were back at each other's throats, but for those few moments when we were joined in song, it was glorious.

I suppose I do little things for her, like the matter with the nose job and singing the duet with her because they are my little ways of indirectly apologising to her for all the years of torture I subjected her to. I want to remember the Rachel Berry I met when I was 6, I want to go back to that time and tell her that in years to come I would be horrible to her, but that she should remember that I still cared about her and that I would never forget the friendship we struck up in that hospital ward. I do feel guilty for all of that, reader, and every time I do something for her, it is laced with guilt for those early high school years. I could have loved 6 year old Rachel Berry throughout our childhood as my best friend, and if I had had her, perhaps I would never have felt so insecure about myself and would never have been depressed. But as it stands, things did not proceed that way.

I considered asking her about that time in hospital while we were working together on the mash up, but I thought it would confuse her and hurt her feelings, so I swallowed the questions which threatened to spew forth from my lips and let it be. There was no need to cause her consternation or hurt. I let sleeping dogs lie, as they say. But I cannot help but wonder what it would be like to have her know. Perhaps, one day, when I am sure that things are more stable between the two of us, I shall ask her. There is graduation looming on the horizon, after which I may never see her again, so perhaps then would be the perfect time to reveal to her that I was that girl she met all those years ago.

Glee club is not the only club in which the two of us belong; we are both members of the school's Celibacy club. Now I know what you're thinking: "the Celibacy club! But you've had sex! You admitted it!" and yes reader, I am guilty. Rachel is another matter; completely virginal, she refuses to have sex until she is at least 25, which, though an admirable proclamation, is not at all realistic. Just as she herself said the first time she joined Celibacy club: "girls want it as much as guys do," and seeing as those words left her mouth, I do believe that she has experienced some of those hormonal urges. If anything, as much as I believe she is strong willed, I don't think she is going to remain a virgin until she is 25.

As for me, well yes, there was Puck first, then Finn later and more recently. With Puck, it was a mistake - or a drunken choice, whichever way you see it - but with Finn it was completely intentional. It was, I suppose, dear reader, a way of cementing our relationship; I'd never had sex with him before, and I thought that perhaps if we did, then he would be less likely to run off with Rachel Berry, whom I know he was eyeing, even as we were dating. This was perhaps a silly reason, but at the same time, it wasn't the only one; what can I say, reader? I'm only human after all and like Rachel said, girls want it just as much as guys.

"Why then are you in the Celibacy club?" you may ask. Well, I must say that, like with some other things in my life, it is a matter of image and how I portray myself to people. The Celibacy club is something to settle the mind of my mother; while she knows I have had sex, with my falling pregnant and everything, she believes that after that experience that I would not do it again. So, I rejoined the Celibacy club, in an effort to sooth her worries, and she, fully believing that I am committed to abstinence from sex, had no idea that I was sleeping with my boyfriend in our house, in my bed, while she was at work. It helped greatly that I am the only other person living in our house; it meant there were no worries about my father or sister walking in on us, and while Finn may have jumped at the sound of a car horn, I knew that we ran no risk. It was a pleasant feeling, knowing that you didn't have to look over your shoulder every five seconds for fear of being caught.

You may be disgusted by this, dear reader, but to be honest, though I somewhat stupidly fear your judgement on most things, this is not one of them. Judge as you like, this is one life choice that I cannot regret. I have a right to do with my body as I wish, and while Finn was an awkward, and somewhat terrible lover, I was satisfied enough that I did not give it up. Now that he and I are no longer together, obviously I am not sleeping with anybody. And do not think that I am some 'easy girl', stranger, as you read these words, because I would not have sex with a man that I do not know very well. Finn and I dated for the majority of high school before we slept together, and while Puck and I may never have dated, he and I knew each other for at least two years previously. I need to build a trust with a man before I will let him near me in that way, I hope you understand that. So as it is, unless Finn and I get back together, which I have already told you, I am unwilling to do, or if Puck and I do, which is even less likely, then I will not be having sex for a while, and the Celibacy club shall therefore be relevant in my life.

Anyhow, reader, that is all that I have to say about both my sex life and Rachel Berry. While the latter may again re-emerge in later entries, I assure you that the former will not.

**A/N: So, thoughts? Any at all?**  
><strong>I know there are hints of Faberry but it's not a line I'm going to pursue. Like the show it's all about the little moments which lead up to nothing between them. There's most likely going to be quite a bit more about Rachel later, because I didn't quite cover everything here. <strong>  
><strong>Also, I'm thinking this story could have a sequel, although, not in diary form. It's still just a thought though. Gotta do one thing at a time!<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

I forgot, reader, that I was going to explain Rachel's situation with her mother, Shelby Corcoran. You see, Shelby was a surrogate mother for Rachel's fathers. As the Berry mythos goes, the two Berry men mixed their sperm together and impregnated Shelby, in an attempt at not discriminating which of the two of them would be the father. Looking at Rachel, I think it's rather obvious which of the two men is the father; I do not at all mean to come across sounding like a racist, but Rachel is most definitely not black, therefore meaning that the darker skinned of her two fathers, Leroy, is not, in fact, her biological father, but the other, short, dark haired, glasses wearing, Jewish looking man, Hiram. Apart from his height, Rachel does not resemble him much either, but she does, however, look strikingly like her mother. She also inherited her mother's incredible vocals. To be fair, not everything about genetics is clear cut, and without a paternity test, which I assume they have never done, no judgements should be made about Rachel's biological father.

The relationship between Rachel and her mother is a complicated one. Shelby gave her to the Berry men and it seemed Rachel was used to having two fathers and no mother figure, but unbeknownst to anyone, she harboured the secret desire to one day meet her biological mother. It wasn't that the Berry men didn't give her enough love or anything like that, it was just that, as most of us know, there is simply something more comforting about a mother than a father, and as most of us also know, men are simply no good to talk to about some things. I cannot even begin to imagine what it was like for Rachel with neither siblings nor female in the house to go to when she did not want to talk to her fathers. Coming from a household where women outnumber the men three to one, it is almost an incomprehensible situation for me.

Last year, when we were Sophomores, Rachel discovered that her mother was one Shelby Corcoran, and that she was the coach for our rival Glee club, Vocal Adrenalin. Contact ensued and Rachel was on the brink of having a relationship with her mother, just as she'd always wished, only it wasn't ever to happen. Shelby, thrown into the deep end without anything to hold on to, was not at all ready for a teenage daughter. To be fair, reader, she did attempt it; she fixed Rachel's Lady Gaga costume for our Bad Romance number, as neither of the Berry men could sew, but ultimately she felt that her hand in her daughter's life was too much, too suddenly and she could not cope.

For Rachel's sake, I wish the relationship had lasted longer, but you cannot force people into things that they are uncomfortable doing. Coach Sylvester would strongly disagree with me on that point, but I cannot see how forcing Shelby to be around when she did not want to be part of Rachel's life would have helped either of them. I believe it was better that they met, knew how the other was doing and then left each other's lives before trying to push past their insecurities and ruining something which should have been beautiful.

I understand Shelby though. Having given up a daughter, I know something I'm going to regret later in life is never knowing how she is, what kind of person she became, whether I would have raised her the same way, whether I would be proud. Beth and Shelby live in New York, and for a brief moment, I envisioned walking into them on the street during our trip, but that was just a silly daydream. Beth would only be little over a year old, so she would have no idea who I was, but it still would have been lovely. There may be a chance of meeting them again one day; I could always track down Shelby and ask to see her. I'm not sure whether she would agree to such a meeting, but at least I would have the certainty of knowing whether or not it was a realistic option.

Do you know what it feels like, reader to give up your child? It's painful. It's difficult. It's heart wrenching. You feel that you suddenly have a hole in your heart where your child should be. It feels like there are strings of loose flesh hanging down inside your heart and that you could poke a finger through them to the lonely space beyond. You feel like you have a fountain of love and nobody to shower it with because that person, that baby, is gone, taken into the loving arms of someone else. The most difficult thing wasn't signing the papers confirming the adoption, it was holding her, my Beth, my daughter in my arms minutes after birth and crying with the joy of simply having her there, all the while knowing that I wasn't going to be taking her home with me. Do you know what it's like, you stranger, to hold your child, your first born, and having them light up your life, only to know that you're giving them up and the light which came with them? Holding her there, the sweat still drying upon my forehead, hair dishevelled and an uncomfortable ache between my legs, it seemed that all that faded away and that the blood, the sweat and the tears were worth every ounce of effort and pain because the result was a beautiful baby girl. I didn't even notice my mother, Mercedes or Puck in the room while I was holding my daughter; for a moment, it was just she and I.

That's why I sympathise with Shelby, because even though she is the mother raising my daughter, she too went through the same thing. She knew that she was going to give her child to Hiram and Leroy, just as I knew that I was going to give Beth up for adoption, and trust me, reader, knowing and expecting the moment of parting does not make it in the slightest bit easier to bear.

Rachel, well, Rachel doesn't understand this perspective. I don't believe Rachel has ever had anything that she's loved so much that it compares to having a child, so she could not possibly understand the pain of such a separation. I don't believe she appreciates how difficult it was for Shelby to give her up, nor how hard it was for Shelby to see her again. I know that if I met Beth in fifteen years' time with no previous contact, I don't think I would be able to have a fantastic relationship either. It would be too hard, knowing that there was so much that I missed out on, so many milestones, so many developments, from early things like learning to crawl then walk, or talking, as well as the first day of kindergarten, then the first day of middle school, then high school; I would have missed her first boyfriend, or girlfriend, if that's the way she so felt, I would have missed the phases that kids so often go through, I would have missed seeing her walk around with her favourite toy in times of hardship. It's difficult to ignite a relationship with your child when you've missed so much of their life.

Sure, parents are normally thrown into things head first anyway, with no one really knowing what to do with their babies, whether they're behaving correctly, or eating properly, but it's different with a teenager. Parents who have their kids from babies saw all those growing up steps, they are eased into the idea of having a teen; it's difficult for someone who has never had to raise a child suddenly be handed one and all their insecurities and problems and hopes and dreams and goals and whatever else. You feel more lost because you feel that you should be doing things for them, but they are already mostly autonomous; all at once you feel you should treat them as your child, just as they want you to, but you don't know what that involves because they are so adult, dealing with the emotions of an adult, but still holding some of the naivety of youth. You don't know how to deal with that when it's your first time with a child. It's all the more difficult when they're _your_ child, because you feel that you should just know, because you share DNA.

Shelby came into Rachel's life and found a girl who was vastly talented, rather high strung, competitive and demanding, needing to be in control, but she also found a girl who had been bullied, who had deep insecurities and fears and who wanted a relationship which neither of them were ready for. Rachel needed a mother, but Shelby needed a daughter, not a teenager who did things mostly on her own; she needed someone who needed her. And while Rachel did need her, it wasn't in the way Shelby thought she would be needed.

I understand this. I understand why Shelby thought she would have to walk away - why she did. I even understand why she adopted Beth; my daughter was the second chance she never got to have with her own daughter. This time she would do things right from the offset, she would see her through her baby years, through her child years and eventually into her teenage years. I think Rachel resents this, but I also thinks she understands, even if not fully.

Perhaps there'll come a time when Rachel and Shelby meet as adults, when neither requires anything of the other and perhaps that way they will cultivate the relationship they both want. It won't be the same, of course; it will be more a relationship of equals, possibly of friends, but never one of mother and daughter. I do believe it would be good for them to not be cut off from each other for the rest of their lives, for there is not enough closure there for either of them at the moment.

As for Rachel and I, well I cannot say it was easy seeing either of them go through this when I knew that it would one day possibly echo the relationship between myself and my own daughter, and sometimes I think that I should have taken the time to explain things to Rachel, about how Shelby might have felt. But I do not know whether such forwardness would have been welcome, considering that Rachel and I aren't the closest of friends. I may have been overstepping boundaries in saying anything. However, I do think it might have helped settle her mind and bring some comfort to her, simply through understanding. It was something which could possibly have brought us closer as friends, but did not; I didn't offer Rachel support and she did not come to me with questions.

That's in the past now, reader. There is possibly a future ahead, where both Rachel and I are fortunate enough to have a good relationship with our mother and daughter respectively, but that all remains to be seen. We can only hope for the best.

You probably have it in your head, dear reader, that we are a bizarre little family, our group of Glee misfits, and that, my friend, we most certainly are. Puck and I are parents, of a sort, Rachel is the adopted sister of our daughter, and her boyfriend is my ex, who is step brothers with Kurt Hummel because their parents are married. And to continue the family tree on the other side, there is Santana, who used to date Puck, but who is now in love with Brittany, though she will not admit it; she does not have to, the looks she shoots the other girl when she thinks none of us are looking are unable to be missed - a blind person could see them. However, Brittany is dating Artie Abrams, who once used to date Tina Cohen-Chang, who is currently with her boyfriend Mike Chang, and they have been together for quite a while. And then there is Sam, who I used to date, who is close friends with Mercedes, who I used to live with and who is close friends with Kurt. Then there is Mr Shuester, who Rachel used to have a crush on, who used to be married, whose wife planned on adopting my baby because she was lying about her own pregnancy, who are now divorced, and Mr Shue is in love with Ms Pillsbury, our school's guidance counsellor. There is also Lauren Zizes who is dating Puck, and David Karofsky who is with Santana, in a bid by her, probably to hide her sexuality. Yes, reader, you could say we were a pretty strange, twisted family. But we are a family, and that is what matters. When one of us needs help, the rest of us are there.

We have our fights, as you may imagine, and as you have already been informed of, most notably the disagreements between Rachel and myself, but truly, we care about one another more than we care about anyone else in the school. We bonded because we had nowhere else to go and no one else who would listen, and, even despite our outer facades, we are all compassionate people, yes, even Santana who tries to pretend that she cares for no one else. My greatest hope is that our friendship will extend beyond the end of school, although, hopefully, we shall have matured and less drama will surround our small group. I must admit, the drama gets tiring. Even when we go our own ways, I'm sure we will find times to catch up and keep alive old friendships.


	10. Chapter 10

Daddy had an affair, that's why mom threw him out of the house. He didn't just leave - mom forced him to. This happened after he kicked me out of our house, when he found out that I was pregnant. To pinpoint this in my timeline more exactly, this happened just before Regionals in Sophomore year, just before I was rushed to hospital after the competition and gave birth to Beth. Mom sought me out after our performance, begging forgiveness and telling me that daddy had been found sleeping with a "tattooed freak" as she put it, and that she threw him out of the house.

That "tattooed freak" actually happened to be a very nice girl; I searched for her and found out who she was, because I couldn't believe that daddy would be cheating on mom - it was simply inconceivable - and I wanted to see for myself what was so appealing about this girl that would bring him to commit adultery. As it turns out, she was a lovely woman, young, at least half my father's age, in fact, much closer to mine, who was working at a local bar where the two of them met. She was a university student at Ohio State University, and did her best to make ends meet. I'd skipped school one day to go see her and I sat in the dingy bar, arms folded across the counter, introducing myself to this girl.

"Oh," she'd said when I said my name was Quinn Fabray. She looked almost fearful as I stared at her from my side of the countertop, and I wonder what had gone through her mind at that moment.

"Russell's daughter?"

"Yes, Russell's daughter."

"Oh. Well, hey, I don't mean to be rude, but why are you here, I mean, shouldn't you be in school or something?"

"I wanted to see the woman my father cheated on my mother with," I said, rather coldly and watched as the girl squirmed in front of me. Reader, a part of me wanted to make her uncomfortable, to make her feel guilt, even when I knew that it probably wasn't her fault. Already I could tell that she wasn't the seductive type and that she wouldn't have been the one to make the first move; in all likelihood, it was my father who began flirting with her. I could see it being played out, like a movie scene flickering in the cinema of my mind: daddy sitting with his whiskey in hand, looking at this girl with short red hair and an eyebrow piercing, shoulders covered in tattoos and thinking that she was alluring simply because she wasn't prim and proper or rich, and was young. I could imagine him being rather boisterous, trying to grab her attention, flirting with her as she poured him another drink, he, taking care to flash his ruby embedded ring, a family heirloom, so she would know that he was wealthy. She, used to such behaviours from men in such towns, probably brushed off the flirtatiousness; to her, he was just another customer, buying his drinks from her. What she would not have anticipated was his stubbornness, or determination, and everyday, he would come back for more drinks, everyday he would flirt more, everyday he would get more adventurous, and eventually, she, having come to know his face and his ways, would give him a chance when he asked her to share a drink with him for the umpteenth time. I suppose we can guess how it played out after that very first drink.

Her name, by the way, is Jenna and she's a graphic design student; I learnt from our conversation that she'd designed some of her tattoos herself, and she wanted to pursue that professionally, which is why she'd started out down the graphic design path.

"It's not all I thought it would be, but the course isn't too bad, you know? I'll probably just stick it out and keep doing what I'm doing with my own designs and hopefully with a degree, I'll have a higher chance of being hired as an actual designer. I'm thinking I'll try running a business with a tattoo artist friend of mine. I can do the designs, I think probably custom ones for customers, instead of conventional ones that any parlour would have, and then he can ink them. It could work," she enthused, about half an hour later when our initial awkwardness and anger had dissipated and we had started on conversations not revolving around her relationship with my father. Actually, it started out with a question on my part about one of her tattoos. I'd forgiven her for her part in the affair; after just three minutes with her, I knew that none of it was her doing.

"Oscar Wilde?" I asked, nodding at the aforementioned tattoo which read 'we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.'

"Yeah. You've read Lady Windemere's Fan?" Jenna said, surprised.

"No, but I know the quote. I love Dorian Gray though."

And that was the conversation which broke the icy glacier which lay between us and began the true conversation. As it turned out, Jenna admired literature as much as I did and we spent a good half an hour discussing and debating the merits of Dorian Gray. But literature was not what I was there to talk about with Jenna, and I soon began thinking about she and my father again. All I wanted to know was why she would sleep with a man like my father when she was so obviously not attracted to men like him, or seemingly, from the impression I was getting.

"Jenna, I need to know why you slept with my father. I've realised that he was probably hitting on you, not the other way around, but I don't understand why you would respond to that. I mean, you probably get it all the time, working in a bar," I'd said, fearing her reaction to bringing up such a topic, but I suppose that she must have been expecting such a change in conversation because she sighed and looked at me, and I could see her choosing her words carefully.

"He was insistent that he and I have a drink together one day. Every day he would come in and insist, and I always refused, you know? It's bad form to be drinking on the job, even if your job is a bartender. I see a lot of guys like your dad, coming for a couple of drinks after work, trying to get drunk enough to face home, and I figured your dad was just one of them. He seemed like a nice guy, and he wasn't pushy about me having a drink. It was more that he just asked every time he was in, like he actually cared about me. One day I came in when I wasn't working and Russell was here. He recognised me and bought me a drink. 'You're not working today so you can finally have that drink with me,' he said, and I thought that if I just had that one drink, he would leave me alone. But one drink turned into quite a few and a beginning awkward conversation turned into an easy one, like it did with you and me, and I dunno, but all of a sudden I was with this man who was treating me better than any man had ever treated me before and we were laughing and talking and drinking and when he asked me to leave with him, it just seemed like the natural thing to do."

Reader, I could relate to much of this, for that is the same technique Puck had used on me. Well, not quite, but similar; the drinking, the easy conversation, which then all turned into something else. In that moment, I blamed Jenna less than I ever had before, because I knew what it was like to be in that position.

"I suppose you can guess what happened from there," she finished, giving me an apologetic look.

"Yeah, I can guess. But why keep it up? Especially after you found out he was married?"

"You have to understand, Quinn, I wasn't emotionally invested in Russell. I could see things for what they were: sex between us was just sex. Talking to him was great and everything, but when it came down to it, he was more of a friend and not even a close one. To be honest, I'm alone in this town; I moved here to go to college and I barely know anyone. It was nice to have Russell to go to when I needed physical comfort, and I don't mean sex. That's what he wanted and I just went along with it because it was like pretend intimacy for me, you know? It made me feel a little more like I belonged in this town, like I wasn't a stranger that nobody would miss. That's why I kept it up, even when I found out about Judy and you and your sister."

I couldn't say, reader, that I was satisfied with this reason, but I've come to accept that what I might deem as a terrible motive to do something, someone else would deem a brilliant one. Jenna didn't want to be alone and did what she deemed necessary to ensure that she wouldn't be; that is something I understand. I don't understand why she felt she had to sleep with my father to feel that way, instead of perhaps looking to make friends, but I do understand that loneliness is one of the worst things to bear and that you would do anything to avoid it. So I found that I could forgive Jenna, more so after finding out that she and my father weren't seeing each other anymore; she said that he didn't want to see her after my mother threw him out of the house because he felt too guilty.

I looked at her, this girl with the artificially coloured red hair, and I thought that although she was probably blonde once, the colour, more of a wash than a proper dye job, suited her; it seemed a reflection of herself, just as her tattoos depicted what she was passionate about and what was important to her. Reader, I'll admit, I wanted to hate her; I arrived at the bar certain that I was going to hate the girl who slept with my father, thus breaking up my parents' marriage, but instead, I found someone who loved what she was doing, who had a goal in mind for where she wanted to be, and I just couldn't. I couldn't hate her. Instead, I found that I actually enjoyed her company, when we weren't talking about my father and had forgotten that the whole affair didn't occur. Reader, during that entire meeting, I could not help but feel sorry for Jenna; I felt that she was made a victim by my father, even though she had not borne any travesty in her own life. She was however, used and then thrown aside by him, and even though she said she knew it was just sex, I knew it hurt her to be alone again. But there was nothing that I could do. So, I thanked her for her time, got up and made to leave.

"Hey Quinn," she said, as I stood, "do you wanna go out with me sometime?"

"Like, like a date?" I said, incredulous. Don't misunderstand me reader, I've nothing against homosexuality and the like, and though I tend to say that I am straight because I've never had strong feelings for a girl the way I have for a boy, I cannot admit that I have never been attracted to another girl, however the mere prospect of going out with the woman who had been sleeping with my father was disgusting.

"Um, well, no, it doesn't have to be a date," she said, and with this reassurance, I agreed, because after all, I found someone who I could talk to about books and not have them want me to join their book club, nor have them ridicule me for my extensive reading. With a time and date agreed upon, I walked towards the door.

"It's a date then!" Jenna called after me and I rolled my eyes, because I knew that she was saying it to provoke me.

Our 'date' went well, I must say. In Jenna I found a confidante, someone I could trust; our personalities just seemed to fall together, as though we'd known each other for a lifetime, and suddenly, for the first time, I had a friend outside of school, outside of church and outside of family, who was removed enough from my life that they wouldn't be biased by the opinions of other people - much like you, reader, though, you cannot advise me to move in the right direction seeing as you are so far removed from my life that I do not, in fact, know you. Or so I hope.

Jenna was only a mere 4 years older than I and had enough experience that she could help me should I require assistance in personal matters, but was young enough to relate to my experiences; she had not yet reached that threshold of life where high school drama was so far in the past that it was completely insignificant. She understood about the pressure with boys and the feuds with friends, and the constant lashings one would suffer from the student body should one be different from the herd, as I was when I was pregnant and as well as because of Glee. She understood the struggle you go through to find yourself in these teenage years and supported me in the things which no one else would support me in or understood, such as my single minded endeavours to win the Prom Queen title.

That isn't to say, reader that we did not have our disagreements; Jenna was a self confessed atheist and while I am not someone who tries to convert people into Christianity, I disapproved of her view. The pair of us had a rather heated debate about the existence of God and the principles of the Church, with Jenna claiming that there was no evidence for the existence of God and that Church people were of a sort who no longer cared about the religion but about the power, wealth and political influence of their positions. I argued the point on behalf of the Church, because reader, while I think there may be people whose concerns are just as Jenna described, I believe a good many people of the Church joined because they felt it was their calling from God, not because they saw opportunities to progress to wealth and power. However, I could not counter Jenna's argument against the existence of God because truthfully, reader, there is no tangible evidence; that is why religion is so often called faith - we must go on the beliefs of centuries, trusting that once upon a time, Jesus Christ had provided the evidence for the existence of His Father. To end the debate, Jenna and I agreed to disagree, and the topic of religion rarely ventured into our conversations again.

However, there were certain points of religion on which Jenna and I agreed, most notably the Church's stance against homosexuality. As it turns out, Jenna is not "entirely straight," as she put it, and in truth, I'd have to agree with that sentiment about myself also. "Not entirely straight" seems a perfect way of saying "leaning towards bisexuality". The two of us agree that homosexuality should not be viewed as a sin and we are both outraged that gay marriage has not been legalised globally. We were ecstatic about the state of New York giving gay marriage the seal of approval and Jenna quoted Neil Armstrong: "One giant leap for mankind." I can't help but agree; we are in the hope that other states will follow and that the U.S.A. can lead the world into acceptance and equality, even if it may be slow progress. It may seem a naïve hope that equality for gay people will be a global occurrence, but once, the same thing was thought about equality for people with dark skin colours, and while there may still be racist undertones buried in the collective subconscious, people are no longer segregated because of their skin colour on a legal level. That acceptance too was a giant leap for mankind. But for now, I suppose we shall turn our focus to baby steps.

It feels good knowing that there is someone I can talk to about these kinds of issues because I know that should I dare to bring them up at home, my mother would most likely go into cardiac arrest hearing her good Christian daughter speaking so, even though we both know that I am no longer the "good Christian daughter"; that mantle belongs to Frannie, if anyone. And should such issues be brought up in the company of my school friends, while many would support it, their first instinct would be to categorise you as gay because you care about issues of homosexual equality, and if there's one thing I learnt about being at McKinley High School, it's that being gay is a stigma. I saw the bullying Kurt went through, I see the talks about Santana behind her back and I don't believe I could face having the entire school turn their back on me yet again.

"But maybe the best thing to do would be turning your back on the school. If you stand up for what you believe in, for who you are, it's not they who'll be abandoning you, but you who's showing them that you're better than they are because you're proud to be who you are. And trust me, once a couple of people are out and doing their own thing, more will come out too. You'll see - the number of people in the closet will astonish you, believe me," Jenna said when I told her about the attitude towards homosexuality at school. I agree, but I lack the courage do come out as "not entirely straight" and even should several people come out, there is no certainty that attitudes would change; look at Glee - there are 13 of us and we are still bullied. People just don't care; if you're different, they think they have a license then to torture you.

As for Jenna and I, while I may briefly toyed with the idea of she and I perhaps becoming something more than friends, I cannot say that the idea is plausible, simply because I do not feel that way about Jenna, and Jenna, as far as I am aware, does not have those feelings for me either. The idea appeared in the moments of despair after Finn broke up with me, but has since disappeared. The two of us are close friends though, and I suppose, should anyone ever ask me about a best friend, I would name Jenna. She is teaching me to be less afraid of being unconventional, and my thoughts currently lean towards shaking up the boat when I go back to school in the fall by taking a leaf out of Jenna's fashion style book; perhaps a semi Goth look, dark clothes, funky sunglasses to make me look as though I belong in the '60s, maybe multicoloured hair. I'm still considering, reader, but I think it would be a great way to shock people, and if there's one thing I learnt about self confidence, it's that shocking people by choice often lead to an increase of it. Needless to say, Jenna fully approves of the idea. She thinks I should push the bad ass image and get a tattoo as well, but I'm worried about going _too _far; there must be a limit after all.

I'm thinking pink hair. What do you think, reader? Pink hair?

**A/N: So, an OC who's providing all sorts of new ideas for Quinn. What do you think?**


	11. Chapter 11

And now I fear, reader, that I have reached the last pages of this well worn little book. I feel terribly unhappy that I am to part with such a friend so soon, but such is life and there is nothing here which I need say more about. Already I have said more than I believe I should have, and you know more about me than I could possibly have told you in person, whoever you are, my dear reader, and I hope that you and I never have the misfortune of meeting in person. Yes, Quinn Fabray is terrified of you. You know some of my secrets - not all, I'll admit, because knowing that I write in this journal only to put it out in the world for someone to read naturally initiates a kind of censorship and there are things I did not write about.

"What kind of things?" I can almost hear you ask, well, here's a tidbit for you; things like the fact that Jenna and I slept together once. No, I wasn't drunk that time, and neither was she, and yet, we somehow ended up entangled in her bed, our clothes flung about the room, hanging off various pieces of furniture. It was fantastic, reader, but we realised that our hearts weren't in it, and thus did not repeat the performance. Or other things like the fact that my sister Frannie knew I was cutting in middle school and yet did nothing to stop me. I did not mention this out of fear that you might judge her, and while I have no qualms about you judging me, I do have a problem if you begin to judge those whom I care about. I don't blame Frannie; she did not know how to deal with the issue of a younger sister who was so depressed she harmed herself.

You may think that it defeats the purpose of censorship if I tell you these things now and indeed, I agree, but there is something about reaching the end of a difficult journey which simply makes one's inhibitions disappear. I feel that if you were to ask me anything, absolutely anything in this moment, I would answer it, honestly and unabashedly.

The great writer, Charles Dickens, once so aptly observed one of life's paradoxes:

_"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way."_

This is by far the best summary of my childhood years, and indeed, the journey I undertook writing this journal, that I have ever had the fortune to come across. All at once, I believed I was destined for great things, and yet I could not help but believe during that dark time that I was going to go nowhere. I had hope, but it was tempered by despair. I believed everything, and yet I believed nothing. I possessed the childhood innocence that led me to think that anything was achievable, but my soul had been touched by death, and so I began to think that perhaps I was wrong.

Now, I think that there is nothing I can control in my life, that anything I thought I could control was an illusion. So, I have decided to accept this and follow the flow of life wherever it may take me. I do believe this is something that I should have done a long time ago, and that if I had, I would have spared myself much misery and heartache. And yet, I am grateful for all the things I have been through; without those experiences, I would not be the person I am today - everything happens so that you may reach certain points in your life, from the time in my childhood listening to Madame Scarlet in that little haphazard tent, to my middle school years of self harm, to my more recent experiences of having a baby, and going through some of the difficulties of having a relationship with a boy, or several boys, as it is, over the course of high school.

Forgive me reader, there is more that I could have said, but I have determined with care what I should and should not reveal to you - you are, after all, a stranger to me in this town, who after reading this are less of a stranger, and more a sort of kin - kin because you know much about me which I would share with no other; it's the kind of kinship I felt with Rachel Berry all those years ago in the hospital ward.

As for the people in my life, my mother, Rachel, Finn, Puck, the rest of the Glee club, they will know some of my story, for they were there to experience it with me, but they will not ever know the depth of my feelings as I had gone through all those events. They will not understand my point of view the way you do. That is a shame, in a way, because I feel that I am often typecast as the bitchy cheerleader, when really, there is much more to me than that façade; had anyone taken the time to really learn about me, they might have seen that - the only person who has perhaps truly had a glimpse behind the armour that I carry around, day by day to protect me from the world, is Mercedes Jones, and she has been a fantastic pillar of support.

I don't know what you plan on doing with this journal after you have read through it all, but I ask that you do not look for me. I told you my story because there are some things you cannot hold inside you anymore, which need to be said, so I have said them. I do not need help, I do not need sympathy, I need understanding and for someone to listen; I do not know whether you have given me the former, as much as I hope for it, but I do know that you have granted me the latter, for which I am eternally grateful. So thank you, reader, for sticking through such a piecemeal diary, which tells of my feelings, but does not really tell a coherent story.

Life will be unpleasant again in the future, I am sure of it, but I understand myself enough to know now that I will not deal with it with the immaturity and inability to express myself the way that I had over the years I have already lived. I do not know where I may be in a few years, whether I will have gone to college in some far off state, whether I will have stayed in Lima, whether, in fact, I am still alive at that time. I can only hope for the best and pray that you do too.

So I leave you now, with the hope that you learnt something from the tragedy of my mistakes, and that you understand the mindset of an often misunderstood teenage girl.

**A/N: well, that was that. I know it wasn't really a story, but I hope you enjoyed reading it anyway and that you understood Quinn a little more than you did before.**


End file.
